Tooth & Nail
by ArmyManintheAshtray
Summary: When Garth sends out a call for help, the Winchesters are quick to respond. But the case Sam and Dean find themselves involved in is more demanding than they ever expected, and costs them more than they may be able to pay. This story is set during Supernatural Season 12 between Episode 10 & Episode 11
1. Waking Up

This story is set during Supernatural Season 12 between Episode 10 "Lily Sunders Has Some Regrets" & Episode 11 "Regarding Dean"

Chapter 1 Waking Up

Present Day

Sam regained consciousness with no sense of how long he had been out. It could have been days, or it could have been months. An underlying ache gnawed at his body, but his thoughts were thick and foggy, and he couldn't pinpoint where the pain was coming from. He felt as though he had been struggling forever towards wakefulness. The struggle was the thing he recalled the most – pushing and kicking to rise from the nightmare, like a swimmer escaping ocean depths. Each time he had been about to break the surface, some unseen force had dragged him under again, over and over. How many times had he been pulled back down into the nightmare?

A sudden flash of memory caused him to shrink back in alarm. Sam raised his arms defensively, his heart pounding. He remembered a blinding light, something stabbing into his arm, and then a searing pain spreading through his limbs, immobilizing him. But this time no attack came, and he lowered his arms cautiously, looking at his surroundings.

He was crouched in the corner of a room. There was no direct light, but he had no difficulty seeing. The walls and floor of the room were all of dirt. Sam blinked up at the ceiling. Wooden planks. Was he in some sort of cellar? He looked to his left and saw a filthy mattress atop a rusted bedframe. He had been lying on that bed, he realized. There were manacles hanging from the frame. He had been imprisoned on that bed. He vaguely recalled pain coursing in waves through his body. But the brief memory skittered away, lost in a gathering darkness.

Nibbling at the corner of his mind was some question that he should be asking himself – some concern that he should have. Was there someone he should be looking for? Some nameless being that was responsible for his being there? Something had been done to him. What was it? The memory bobbed again to the surface, but it was gone in an instant. The fog was creeping in from the edges of his mind, something pulling him under once more.

"No…not again…" the sound of his own voice startled Sam, but it served to push back the fog for a moment. He grasped the end of the bedframe, his other arm bracing against the dirt wall, and managed to push himself to standing. He leaned into the corner, his legs feeling dead and useless, fighting to keep himself conscious.

And then he caught the scent. It wasn't the moldy, earthen smell of the walls and floor, and it wasn't the dry, dusty boards above him. It was rich and warm, and it excited him and terrified him. His eyes darted around the room, frantically searching. His unfocused gaze found only the bed, a table and chairs, some cardboard boxes, a doorway. Nothing there was the source of the exquisite odor.

The fog in his brain was whisked away, replaced by an overriding purpose. The nightmare he had awakened from was forgotten. The questions he had about where he was were forgotten. Only one thing mattered. He had to find the source of that scent.

The gnawing pain that had awakened him now exploded throughout his body. It wasn't like the remembered pains from before. This pain did not spread through him or sweep over him in waves. Instead, it seemed to possess his body, compelling him, wringing his bones with desperate need. It pushed all other awareness from his mind.

Sam stumbled to the door. The scent was stronger there. Before him lay a hallway, and to the right he could see an opening. He staggered in that direction. A set of steps led up to a wooden hatch far above him, but that was not where the odor was coming from. His head jerked to the left. He could hear scratching, scraping noises. At the far end of the hallway was another door, this one shut, and from underneath it he could see the smallest sliver of light.

There.

Whatever was creating the scent was in that room. Pain and desire drove him forward, slamming him into the door as his trembling hands fumbled to turn the knob. Again, Sam could hear the noises from inside the room. They had grown more frantic when he had crashed into the door, and need raced through his body like an electrical jolt. The way the sound of a rat struggling excites a python – the thought flitted into his mind and then was gone.

The door was unlocked, and he finally managed to turn the knob and throw it open. Sam stood in the doorway, squinting his eyes against the harsh light of the one dim bulb that hung bare from the ceiling. On the other side of the room stood the source of that intoxicating scent – a man, chained to the wall, his arms above his head. He was turned away from the door, twisting and wrenching at the heavy bolt that held him, but he spun around when the door opened.

Sam could hear the man's heart pounding, and his gaze homed in on the man's throat. His eyes were still narrowed against the burning light, but he could see the pulse throbbing there as the man panted with exertion. He could hear the blood rushing through the veins.

Sam wasn't even surprised when his upper lip curled away from his teeth, when the fangs descended. He was long past remembering why he should be appalled. His only thought was that he had to get to the warm, rich blood that stood in front of him. The excruciating need threatened to rip him apart if he did not. The human body containing the blood was just a flimsy barrier. Sam lurched forward just as the man spoke.

"Sam? Sammy?"


	2. Lyssa

Chapter 2 Lyssa

Earlier

Lyssa hated Thursdays. She sat at her desk in American History, her head drooped so that her dark hair hid her face and let the excited chatter from her classmates wash over her. They were all starting to make weekend plans. Lyssa had no intention of being a part of any of them.

At one time, she wouldn't have dreamed of leaving her house with her hair hanging straight down. It would have been in a ponytail, or braided, or curled, or piled on her head in a carefully crafted "messy" bun. Her face would have been perfectly made up, just enough to highlight her best features, definitely not enough to look desperate. And since spring had arrived, she would have been wearing an outfit that just pushed the boundaries of the school's dress code. She would have been holding court on a Thursday afternoon, suggesting and coaxing and guiding her little group to pick the plans for the weekend that she recommended. She would have done it with such an ingratiating smile and such a bubbly attitude that none of them would have even doubted that she had the best ideas ever. But that was before.

She could feel herself dragging slower and slower as she tried to put off the end of the day. Trigonometry had been torture, but it was over in the blink of an eye. Lunchtime had arrived shockingly fast. She despised having to pretend to play volleyball in Phys Ed but was distraught at how the time seemed to fly by. She didn't want 4th block to be over yet. She didn't want the final bell to ring for the day.

"Lyssa...Lyssa..?" Mr. Neal's voice finally broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to see the teacher standing in front of her desk. The classroom was empty of other students. "Did you send me your paper on trade agreements between the colonies and Great Britain?"

She didn't respond for a long time, staring at Mr. Neal with a quizzical look, her thoughts miles away. Her expression, the way her eyebrows drew together, emphasized the scar on her face. It ran from just between the brows, curved down over her nose, and ended on her left cheek. It wasn't the angry red color that it had been immediately afterwards, but it was still obvious. She saw the look of pity beginning to form on the teacher's face. She had become an expert on spotting the look.

"Mr. Neal…the paper…I did send that in…" she stammered, ducking her head again. "Did you get it? I mean, I think I sent it in. But if you already checked, maybe I didn't? Let me see if I can find…" She trailed off as she fumbled with her tablet.

"Whoa, whoa there," Mr. Neal said, holding his hands in front of him in a 'calm down' gesture. "I haven't checked yet. I just reminded everyone before they left class that I was going to make a final count within fifteen minutes. Anything sent to me after that is going to be counted late." He waited for Lyssa to regain her composure. She glanced back up at him, and he gave her a smile. "You didn't look like you heard me."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Neal," Lyssa said. "I'm really trying to pay attention. Thursdays are just really bad…" Her voice trailed off again.

"Why are Thursdays particularly bad?" Mr. Neal asked quietly. Like a few of the more determined teachers and students, Mr. Neal had done his best to engage Lyssa, even when they saw no apparent improvement. This was the first time all year that she had offered a response, and he did not want to spook her.

Lyssa took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Before, teachers had always been just a distraction in her day that had to be managed, the way she managed her social group or her parents. Each interaction with a teacher or coach or other adult had been carefully planned – the appropriate flattery given here, the appropriate dependence shown there. She had made absolutely zero waves, but somehow she had always gotten her way. Now here she was starting a discussion where she had no idea what she was gaining, hadn't even considered what she wanted to gain. She was just talking to a teacher like he was an actual person, like she was someone who actually needed help.

It wasn't like Mr. Neal didn't know what had happened over the summer. It was a small town, and people talked. When there was a drunk driving accident, people talked a lot. When it involved the high school's star football player and his twin sister…well...

Lyssa had almost died at the scene of the accident. She had flatlined in the ambulance and been rushed into the ER with one of the paramedics straddling her lifeless body, performing chest compressions. She had been revived and then received eight units of blood as the ER doctors worked frantically to staunch the hemorrhaging, and an additional four units as the surgeons repaired massive internal wounds. She had multiple broken bones and cuts and abrasions. She had spent four months in the hospital and then a rehab facility, missing the first month-and-a-half of her junior year.

While she was recovering, there had been fundraisers throughout the community to help her family with the medical expenses. Hundreds of cards had come to her room, first at the hospital and then at the facility. The school had even held a pep rally in her honor. But she had received very few visitors after the first couple of weeks. "It's like visiting a stranger," one of her friends had reported to several of the other girls in their group.

On her first day back to school in early October, a huge banner, festooned with ribbons and balloons, hung over the main entrance proclaiming, "WELCOME BACK LYSSA!" But it wasn't really like a welcoming back. It was more like an over exuberant welcome for a brand-new student. The Lyssa that returned to school was not the Lyssa they had all known. The new Lyssa rarely spoke at all. She kept her head down, her hair hiding her face. She always wore long sleeves and long pants. The rumor was that the scar on her face was nothing compared to the scars on her arms and legs. The calculating charm and grace were gone. She walked through the school corridors with her new slow, awkward gait, dragging her twisted right foot and leaning on her cane; and she bristled at any offer of assistance.

If the student body had been described like a nature documentary, Lyssa's portion would have been narrated like so:

_This lioness once ruled her pride with a regal and haughty air, but her fortunes have taken a mighty fall. Weak and injured, she is fearful and frequently snaps at others in the pride. The other lionesses, sensing her impotence, no longer follow her lead. In fact, they have withdrawn from her, pushing her out of the pride, leaving her more and more alone in the wilderness._

"Why are Thursdays so bad, Lyssa?" Mr. Neal prompted.

"Thursdays are when I have to go to the therapist. I'm supposed to talk about the wreck…and how I feel about Devon."

Devon – her twin brother. The one she knew should not have been driving that night. The one she had agreed to ride with anyway so that there wouldn't be an unpleasant scene between them. A scene would have been damaging to the All-American persona that was their social cache. She and Devon had been co-rulers of the tiny kingdom of Rock Creek High School – Devon the star athlete, and Lyssa the social diva. That little world had revolved around them, but it had all changed the night of the wreck. Lyssa's life and health and future had been irrevocably altered.

But Devon had walked away from the crash with barely a scratch.


	3. Garth

Chapter 3 Garth

"So, what does Garth need help with?" Dean asked Sam the question as they drove north towards Grantsburg, Wisconsin. Garth Fitzgerald IV, their friend and fellow hunter, lived there in semi-retirement with his wife Bess. Dean and Sam hadn't seen him in several months, but he had called that morning to say that he might need some help. "We'll head out now" – Dean had told him without even waiting to hear what the help might entail – "send Sam the details," and they had packed up and left the bunker within fifteen minutes.

That was the sort of friend Garth was – if he needed help, Sam and Dean were not going to hesitate. Not that the friendship had always been that warm. The Winchesters' relationship with Garth had started out as one of incredulity, followed by annoyance, followed by acceptance, and finally – even Dean would have to admit – a strong affection. Garth was unique.

An unfortunate encounter with a werewolf had landed Garth in his semi-retired state. He still kept his ears out for news which he passed along the hunter network, but he no longer actively participated in hunting. Most of his time was spent running a half-way house of sorts. Dean referred to it as Garth's Home for Wayward Werewolves, but the official title was The Lupercal House. It was a place where humans who had been bitten by a werewolf might learn to survive in society, and hunters far and wide knew about the place. The farm in Grantsburg, which had belonged to Bess' father and had once hidden an extended family of werewolves, quickly gained as much notoriety in the hunter community as the most well-known hunter bars.

Sam and Dean had been completely appalled.

"Times are changing, guys, you gotta keep up," Garth said when the Winchesters approached him with fears for his safety. "Who else is going to find the new lycanthropes and know they need help? I'm not worried. Hunters are smart. They know we're trying to save people here, man."

"Hunters aren't smart," Dean had groused to Sam afterwards. "You know that – I know that. Why doesn't Garth know that? Hunters are dumber than hair, no offense…"

"Yeah, none taken."

"…and they're panicky, too. Some of those guys are just as likely to come shoot him as they are to come looking for help."

"Garth does know that, Dean. He just chooses to see the best. That's just Garth for you."

And, amazingly enough, it seemed to be working. Hunters knew that if they were tracking a werewolf and encountered a bitten victim, there was an option other than just killing them outright. They could be taken to The Lupercal House for evaluation and possibly even rehabilitation. And in fact, over the past several months, more than a few hunters had shown up at the farm with newborn werewolves bound and shackled in their vehicle. Garth and Bess took them in, assessed them, and did what they could to help them. They had several success stories – werewolves that could control their actions, control their transformations, pass as human. Of course, it didn't always work out.

"Is this something to do with one of his werewolves? I knew it was a bad idea. I told you, didn't I…?" Dean continued, but Sam held up his hand to forestall any more questions as he finished reading the email that Garth had sent. Dean looked disgruntled, but held his tongue, staring morosely through the Impala's windshield at the twisting two-lane road ahead. Sam was silent for several more seconds, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth over the screen of the phone he held, and Dean had just opened his mouth to begin asking questions again when his brother finally spoke.

"Wow. No, nothing to do with werewolves at all. It looks like vampires. But who killed them? And why would they just kill them like that and leave them…?"

"What the hell are you talking about, man?"

"Garth's picked up something around his area. Apparently, he's got ties with all the surrounding law enforcement. He tries to know someone in every county who will, and I quote, 'do me a solid by checking the morgue for fangs or whatnot and not asking any questions'." Sam grinned as he read the wording aloud. Garth was nothing if not resourceful. "So, these weird deaths have turned up..."

"Dead vampires, is that what you're saying?" Dean asked, still confused.

"Yeah, dead vampires, but more…" Sam explained that bodies had been found in pairs, each dead vampire was with an exsanguinated victim. "Not just random though, at least not with this last pair he found – the vamp and the vic knew each other. I mean, like really knew each other. The last pair was an ex-wife and the brand-new wife."

"So, each pair of bodies is a vamp and a blood donor, huh?" Dean mulled that over for a bit as he turned into the first gas station they had passed in a while. He got out of the car, his brow furrowed, walking to the back to insert the gasoline nozzle. Then he leaned against the passenger side of the trunk. "Where were they found?"

Sam swung his legs out of the car and stood, stretching widely and yawning.

"That's the other thing," he said. "They were found in an abandoned warehouse – no attempt to burn the vamp body or even really hide the bodies or anything."

The Winchesters stocked up on a few snack items and filled up coffee cups. They were soon back on the road, Sam having taken over driving duties. Dean perused Garth's email.

"That don't sound like hunters," he pronounced, and Sam shot him an exasperated glance. Dean looked slightly affronted. "I'm just saying – dead vamps usually equal hunters. Clearly this is something else."

"Yeah, Dean, I think that's why Garth called us."

It was late evening when Dean turned the Impala onto the gravel driveway that meandered past the farmhouse and on to the barn and various outbuildings beyond. He pulled to a stop just beside the stone walkway that led up to the front door. They walked to the porch and were just about to ring the bell when Dean noticed the neat little sign hanging on the door: THE LUPERCAL HOUSE. Dean sighed. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to for Sam to know what he was thinking.

"Let it go, dude. It's not why we're here."

Just then, the front door was flung open by a widely grinning Garth.

"Long time, no see, mis amigos!" He engulfed Dean and then Sam in a full-on hug and then stood aside and waved them into the farmhouse's front living room. "Bess is just cleaning up supper stuff, she'll be along in a bit. Have a seat guys. Man, it's great to see y'all."

"It's good to see you too, Garth," Sam said as he took a seat on the couch. Dean was still standing in the doorway, scrutinizing the room and the hallway, his gaze intense and alert. When Sam loudly cleared his throat, Dean's attention was drawn to the niceties at hand.

"Yeah, good to see you…" Dean's voice was still distracted, his eyes still searching for any signs of danger. Then he managed to bring his focus fully on Garth's face. What he saw there surprised him. Son of a bitch looks happy, like truly happy –

"Sorry, my bad, I'm just…you know what, never mind." Dean joined Sam on the couch. "Always good to see you, man," he finished, his voice warm. Garth beamed.

After that, they got down to business. The last two bodies had been found just a couple of days ago. Two previous victims had been found roughly six weeks before that.

"The Pine County sheriff's office is saying this last one was a "murder-suicide". Rock Creek police just called both of theirs 'accidental deaths'," Garth said.

"Murder-suicide?" Dean asked, incredulously. "So, first chick just stood there while she got all her blood drained, and then second chick managed to chop her own head off?"

"I guess the head chopping could have come first," Sam mused. "Then tear up your own neck…"

"Don't try to make it sound reasonable, dude…"

"I'm just saying – if I was a cop trying to make sense of these deaths, that's how I might lie to myself."

"Alright, seriously? That's the stupidest…"

As they argued, Garth looked from one Winchester to the other with glee.

"Man, I have really missed you guys," he said with a chuckle.

Just then, Bess appeared from the kitchen.

"Hello, Dean…Sam…"

The men started to rise to greet her, but she waved them off.

"I'll be back down in a bit. I have to get this little thing to bed first." That was when the brothers noticed that a child was clinging to the back of Bess' skirt, hiding behind her legs. Bess gently drew the tiny figure around in front of her.

"It's okay, sweetie. That's just Mr. Sam and Mr. Dean. You can go ahead and say goodnight." She nudged the child forward. The little girl looked to be about four years old. She had curly brown hair, and when she glanced up shyly, they caught a glimpse of warm brown eyes. As she hesitated, Garth turned towards her and held his arms out encouragingly. That was all it took. She hurried across the room, right past the scary strangers, and straight into Garth's embrace. She threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up, kissing the top of her head.

"Goodnight, sunshine," Garth said.

"G'night, Daddy," the little girl replied. She kissed Garth's cheek and gave him a tight hug. He set her on her feet and she rushed back across the room to Bess, who swept the child up into her arms.

"I'll be back," Bess said, addressing herself to Garth, not making eye contact with either of the Winchesters. He nodded at her reassuringly, then turned to face Sam and Dean. They were both staring at him as though he had just sprouted a second head.

"Daddy?" was all Sam could manage to say. Dean was speechless.


	4. Taken

Chapter 4 Taken

When the man entered the dank room, the girl on the cot was making a strange keening noise, a shrill tone of pain and fear, which caused the man to shudder with disgust. He wasn't sure if she was awake or not – she often made that noise as she was approaching consciousness – but her eyes suddenly opened, her head turning towards him. The keening noise grew louder. Her gaze flew to the open door behind the man, and she stirred feebly. He laughed softly at her.

"You can't go anywhere, Lyssa. And I can't stand to listen to that noise, so it's time for another dose."

He drew a rickety wooden chair up next to the cot and sat beside her, carefully unrolling a small bundle he carried with him. The bundle contained several hypodermic syringes filled with a thick, dark liquid. He held one up very carefully and pushed the plunger slowly until a single drop of the deep red contents welled up at the tip of the needle.

Lyssa rolled her eyes wildly around the room. Where was she? Why could she not move? She tried again, fighting past the ache that seemed to possess her, but this time she came up against restraints. Cold iron bit into her wrists, and she heard the clinking of metal against metal. She was handcuffed to the bed. She stared at the man as he leaned over her, her eyes wide and frantic.

"Please don't," she begged. The words came out as barely a whisper, though Lyssa could hear herself screaming inside her head. "Not again."

Her own words reminded her that she should remember who the man was, but her thoughts were so heavy and sluggish. She knew him, she was sure of that. She should remember what was in the syringe, too. He had told her before, hadn't he? Earlier today, or yesterday, or however long she had been here? Was it medicine? Was she in the hospital? A wreck – she had been injured –

"I'm in the hospital?" she whispered.

"No, Lyssa. You're not in the hospital. You need to remember that. You need to remember that I'm here to help you. I'm not going to leave you like those butchers." He reached out his free hand and gently brushed the hair back from her face. "I'm making you strong. Strong enough for the revenge that you deserve. You want that, don't you?"

Lyssa couldn't remember who she might want revenge on. She couldn't really remember anything beyond this room and her fear. Then she felt the sharp sting of the needle piercing her arm and cried out feebly. A burning pain began to spread throughout her body, followed almost immediately by a paralyzing weakness. Her eyes closed as she fell back into the overwhelming darkness.

The man watched her for a few moments, then gently lifted her upper lip and examined the gums. She was making good progress, but he was not completely satisfied yet. She was still thinking of trying to escape, still trying to remember how she had come to be in the shadowy room. She wouldn't really be ready until the hunger was her only thought. He regretted having to use the dead man's blood, but he had found that it was easiest to keep them sedated while the hunger grew.

He left the door to Lyssa's room open as he exited and walked across a small hallway. At the other end of the hall was another room, this one with the door closed and locked. The man slid open a small panel in the door and peered into the room. There was no light, and the only illumination was the weak glimmer that managed to creep into the cellar from the floor above. It made no difference to him; he could see just as well. But the boy inside the room was not as adept. After nearly three days of imprisonment, his eyes had somewhat adjusted, but he could still see only varying shades of gray and black.

"Do you need anything, Devon?"

The man could tell by the sound of the boy's breathing that he was awake, crouching on the cot which he had shoved into the corner of the room. Devon did not respond, though – he did not even move. On the first day, he had hollered and yelled and beaten his fists on the door for hours on end. By the second day, he had very little voice left, but he continued to pound and kick on the door and refused to touch the trays of food that the man slid through the slot in the door. Earlier today, he had flung the food against the far wall and then used the tray to attack the door – to no avail – screaming hoarsely as he did so. Finally, late in the afternoon, he had eaten the peanut butter sandwich and drank the milk that the man delivered. He refused to speak anymore – not to protest, not to ask questions, not to scream for help.

"Try to get some sleep then. Don't worry. I'd say you probably have another day, or at least twelve hours, before you're in any danger."

Still Devon made no sound, but he didn't need to. The man could hear the boy's heartbeat race in response to his words. He smiled softly to himself as he shut the panel and left the cellar.


	5. Emmie

Chapter 5 Emmie

Dean threw his bag onto the motel room's sofa and then sat down heavily on the bed nearest the door. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, arms hanging limply, his head bent. He gave every appearance of a man who was utterly exhausted.

"That was a hell of a lot of driving today," he said to Sam as his brother entered the room behind him and deposited one bag on the sofa and another bag on the remaining bed.

"Don't give me that crap," Sam responded without a trace of sympathy. "We're going to talk about it right now. I'm not giving you a chance to ruminate on it and get yourself all worked up."

Dean stared at his brother as though he were speaking a foreign language.

"When do I ever get myself all worked up? I'm not even sure what the hell ruminating is, but I'll tell you one thing – I don't do it."

"You do, Dean. You think about something, and you think about something, and you blow it all out of proportion…"

"Out of proportion? How could I possibly blow this out of proportion? Werewolf Garth and his werewolf wife are raising a freaking miniature werewolf. And, oh yeah, every hunter in the country knows exactly where they live. Son of a bitch!" Dean's volume increased as he rose and strode the length of the motel room. He ended on the loudly hollered expletive, standing at the bathroom sink, his hands balled into fists against the vanity. Sam was unfazed.

"See? I knew you were ruminating."

"Just shut up."

"Tell me one thing, Dean, what do you think Garth could have done different?"

Aaron Roy had brought the little girl, Emmie, to the farmhouse. He had been on the trail of a werewolf that had led him from Illinois to Tennessee by way of Missouri and Arkansas. Finally, in a derelict neighborhood in Memphis, after weeks of being just one step behind the monster, Aaron had crawled through the weed-choked yard of an abandoned house hoping that he might arrive in time. The werewolf had burst out of the back door of the house, nearly falling over the hunter, and Aaron had rolled and brought his pistol up just in time to put a silver bullet into the creature's chest. Almost immediately, the thrill of completing the long hunt had been dampened by the sight of the blood covering the werewolf's face and hands. He was too late again. Aaron had been determined to search the house, though.

He had found the mutilated corpses of five people. Two men lay in the front room. They looked as though they probably hadn't awakened from their drug-induced stupor long enough to realize that they were being attacked. Another man and a woman were found in the front bedroom, in the same condition as the first two. Only one of the victims had apparently had the mental clarity to realize what was happening and attempt to hide. Aaron found him lying on the bathroom floor, the door shattered. Aaron entered the final bedroom and swept his flashlight over the interior.

Had he not heard the tiny whimper, Aaron would have thought the room empty. He swept his flashlight again over the walls and corners. There was not even a closet in the room to check. Slowly, he made one final pass with the light. Empty boxes, fast-food detritus, piles of filthy clothes – and then the flashlight picked up the tiny, squinted eyes in the far corner. As Aaron approached, the frightened whimpering sounded yet again. He stopped and crouched down.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help," he said in as gentle a voice as he could manage. "Will you let me help you?"

It had taken several long minutes, but he finally coaxed the little girl out of her hiding place among one of the heaps of clothes. She had emerged slowly, holding tightly to a grubby little stuffed tiger, dressed only in a thin nightgown that was too small even for her tiny frame and completely inadequate for the chill of the night. But she was alive, and Aaron had felt a tiny thrill of hope. He was actually going to be able to rescue someone from this nightmare. Then the feeling evaporated as he saw the bloody bite mark on the thin, grimy little arm.

She told him her name was Emmie. She told him her mommy was in the house and "some mens", too. She told him that another man had come into the room where she slept and said that he was going to give her a present. But he had not given her a present, he had bitten her on the arm and then he had left when she began crying. Then there was a lot of noise and yelling, and she had crawled back into the pile of rags that she used to stay warm and hidden. As Aaron gently questioned her, and she told her story in a tiny voice quavering with fear and pain and cold, he tried to fight the sick feeling rising in his gut. She would soon be a werewolf – a monster. He was the one who killed monsters. But he had never had to kill a child.

That was when Aaron remembered hearing about Garth's crazy new endeavor. He had wrapped the small figure in his flannel shirt, tucked her into his backseat where she soon fell asleep, and driven hell for leather to reach Grantsburg in just eleven hours. By the time he got there, Emmie was unconscious and burning with fever, and that was how Garth and Bess had first met her – tiny and helpless and sick, undergoing the transformation that would forever change her.

"What would you have done, Dean?" Sam asked. Dean made no reply, just turned to lean against the bathroom sink and stared at the floor. "Garth and Bess were there with her through the change. They took care of her. They're a family now. It's not exactly the family anyone dreams about, but…"

"Yeah, like an absentee mom and one pain-in-the-ass brother is the dream family," Dean interrupted, but the corner of his mouth was crooked up just slightly.

"Don't forget an adopted dumb-ass angel brother," Sam reminded him.

"Oh yeah, that really rounds out the perfect family, don't it?" Dean rubbed his hands over his face and roughed them through his hair. "It just seems like Garth is determined to paint a bigger and bigger target on himself, man."

"I know. Some people are just like that, aren't they? They won't live safe no matter how much you want them to." Sam spoke softly, and they both knew that he could have been referring to almost anyone in or around their family.


	6. Domestic Disputes

Chapter 6 Domestic Disputes

Chief Parnell, of the Rock Creek City Police, was no more helpful than most law enforcement personnel that the Winchesters dealt with. He grudgingly allowed the FBI agents to scan the information the police had gathered on their "accidental death" victims, he provided Agents Kay and Moreve a canned statement along the lines of "based on the evidence, and in absence of other plausible explanation" when questioned about the accidental death designation, and then he nodded curtly as Sam and Dean left the police station.

"So, two brothers, huh?" Dean commented as he and Sam climbed into the Impala. "Just so you know, Sammy, if I ever accidently sucked all your blood out, I'd be sure to burn your body before I accidently cut my own head off."

"Thanks, man, that means a lot to me," Sam replied in a flat tone as Dean chuckled at his own witticism. "It doesn't seem quite like the other pair, does it? The new wife and the old wife…"

"Well, I guess you could technically call them both domestic disputes."

"The chief said the brothers were estranged. I wonder what that was about."

"We could visit one of the widows and see if we can find out," Dean said. "We'd need to wait until later in the day, though. They're probably at work right now."

"Take me back to the room then, and I'll see what I can find while you get lunch."

Dean was all too happy to go with that suggestion since it was his favorite distribution of responsibilities – Sam handling research while he, Dean, handled food.

"Okay, so get this…" Sam was talking as soon as Dean opened the motel room door, his arms laden with burritos and chips and drinks.

"Hold up…hold up…" Dean deposited the food on the counter of the tiny kitchenette area. Then he took one of the burritos out of the bag, unwrapped the top half, took an enormous bite, and mumbled around the food in his mouth. "Wha ya ga?"

"Estranged was a very polite term for the brothers' relationship." Sam went on to explain that the two victims had been partners in a business venture some five years earlier. "It looks like Larry Tipton, the younger brother, put up all the money. Dan Tipton, the older brother, started raking money out of the business."

"Whoa, not good," Dean interjected.

"Not good at all. It went on for a long time without Larry realizing it. Then the business failed, and Larry and his wife ended up declaring bankruptcy. That's when all the fraud from Dan came out. I found bunches of newspaper articles on the whole thing. It was apparently a pretty big deal around here. Larry and his wife…uh, Susie…were considered real pillars of the community. They ended up living in a trailer park."

"So there really was bad blood between the two guys, just like the two women," Dean mused, then his brow furrowed. "I mean, I guess there was bad blood between the ex-wife and the new wife. You know, unless it was one of those 'now we're all best friends' divorces. Those creep me out, man."

"Yeah…no, this wasn't one of those cases," Sam said. "I found a half-dozen lawsuits that the ex-wife had filed on the husband and the new wife. It was ugly, accusing him of hiding assets, and accusing her of all sorts of manipulation and conspiring and anything else she could think of."

"Bad blood it is then," Dean said with a decisive nod. "Alright, lunch break, then we'll go check in with the Pine County sheriff's office."

Sheriff Clintlock was more forthcoming than the police chief had been. He was younger than the police chief, and he was obviously shaken by the gruesome deaths. He fumbled badly when asked to explain the reasoning behind the murder-suicide call.

"Look, I don't have any good explanation, I don't have any bad explanation, I don't have any explanation at all, fellas. All I know is we got called by a bunch of freaked out kids who'd been foolin' around in an old warehouse. Leslie Garner's neck was all tore up, and Kate Seaver's head had been chopped clean off. I mean, it was right where it shoulda been above her shoulders, but it wasn't attached at all. And her mouth…" Sheriff Clintlock trailed off looking uncertain of how to continue.

"Her mouth…?" Sam prompted.

"Well, her mouth, and her jaws, were covered in blood. Almost like…almost like she'd been the thing that tore into Mrs. Garner's neck."

Dean and Sam just looked at the sheriff with steady gazes.

"I know, I know, it's crazy. But I'll tell you one thing for certain – neither of them died in that warehouse. There wasn't hardly any blood around them at all. They bled out somewhere else. Wherever they'd been held I reckon."

"Held?" Dean asked brusquely.

"Well…maybe held. We aren't sure. Turns out they'd both been kind of missing for about a week when the bodies showed up."

"That's information we weren't previously aware of, Sheriff," Sam said in a stern and vaguely accusatory tone.

"We only just found out ourselves," Sheriff Clintlock answered, looking abashed. "Ms. Seaver lived alone, but she hadn't been at work all week. And turns out Tom Garner hadn't seen his new bride for about a week either. He hadn't reported her missing because he said she 'liked to do her own thing sometimes'."

The look on Sheriff Clintlock's face plainly said that he did not think Mrs. Garner's behavior was appropriate for a newly married woman. "Since they turned up dead together, we kind of figure they must have been missing together. And, personally, I've got my suspicions that Leslie got them both into something bad. If you ask me, getting messed up with her was about the damned foolest thing Tom Garner ever did."

"So, you'd tend to agree with Ms. Seaver, the ex-wife?" Dean prompted.

"Oh, hell yeah, Kate had every right to hate Leslie as much as she did. She pretty much stole Kate's life right out from under her. And they were cousins, no less."

"Again, information we were not aware of, Sheriff," Sam said.

"Oh…well…I probably didn't put that in the report or anything. Everyone around here just knows that already, I guess. I don't think it was really that…"

"Thank you, Sheriff." Dean rose and shook hands with the flustered looking law man. "We'd like to see the bodies now, if you can point us to the coroner."

Sheriff Clintlock looked like he might faint with the relief of getting the two FBI agents out of his office.

"Vampire, sure enough, just like Garth said," Dean and Sam were on their way to the trailer park to speak with Larry Tipton's widow. They hadn't spent much time in the coroner's office. Leslie Garner's body was just like ones that they had seen countless times before – her throat ripped open, her skin an unnaturally pale color from blood loss. And Kate Seaver had definitely had vampire fangs, although it had taken some skillful manipulation on Dean's part to distract the chatty coroner long enough for Sam to check. Dean was just thinking out loud now. "But who's killing them and dumping them? Is it someone trying to send a message to other vampires, you think?"

"I don't think so," Sam responded. "I don't know why they'd have the victim with them if that were the case. None of it makes sense. There's no indication that Kate or Larry had been vampires for any length of time – no indication that they were in a nest – no connection between the two pairs that I was able to find."

"There was sort of a connection," Dean said. "They both involved someone who'd been screwed by family – had their whole lives jacked up by…"

"You're right," Sam broke in, "two people had their life essentially stolen from them by a family member." He quickly flipped through the files that they had just gotten from the sheriff, then ran his finger down the notes that he had taken at the police station that morning. "Yeah, just what I thought – in both cases it was the person who got screwed who ended up as a vamp. Was it some kind of revenge thing?"

"It's not much of a revenge if you end up dead, too," Dean pointed out.

"No…no, I guess not…" Sam agreed, his hypothesis deflating.

"And it still doesn't explain who turned them into vamps, or who killed them," Dean continued as he turned into the trailer park. The Impala rolled slowly down the narrow street which ran the length of the neighborhood. Most of the homes and tiny yards were neatly kept, but Sam had found the Zillow listing for the house the Tiptons had been forced to sell. There had been one picture of an outbuilding in the back yard that was practically the same size as the trailer where Susie now lived.

They were soon seated in the living area of the mobile home, both squeezing onto the small, shabby couch since there was only one other chair. Susie Tipton returned from the kitchen area with glasses of lemonade and set them on the coffee table practically under Dean's and Sam's knees. She sat down in the chair and folded her hands in her lap in a resigned way.

She had obviously been an attractive woman at one time. She was tall and slender, with lovely facial features and large gray eyes. But her eyes were sunken now and ringed with dark circles. She sat with her shoulders hunched forward as if to protect herself from whatever blow fate might deliver next.

"I know this is a difficult time, Mrs. Tipton…" Sam began.

"Am I a suspect again?" Susie broke in, clearly wanting to face the worst while she was braced. "Should I have a lawyer with me?"

"No, no, not at all, Mrs. Tipton," Sam assured her. "We just have a few questions. There's another case that's very similar to your husband's death, and we're trying to determine if there's a connection."

Dean had taken a sip of his lemonade, and he gave Susie a thumbs up in an awkward attempt to lessen the impact of his next questions.

"Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs. Tipton? Anyone who would want to harm him?"

The woman winced in spite of Dean's efforts.

"Larry didn't have any enemies. Even the people who should have been enemies weren't enemies."

"Should have been enemies?" Sam asked.

"Like the suppliers who didn't get paid when the business was failing," Susie explained, her chin lifting just a bit as she recalled her husband's exemplary behavior. "That's why we sold everything – everything. Larry was determined to pay back as much as he possibly could."

"And his brother?" Dean prompted.

Susie shuddered, taking a long breath in through her nose, her lips pressed together. Dean and Sam waited as she composed her thoughts.

"Larry wouldn't even have him as an enemy." She paused, her hands clenched together. One thumb rubbed against the other in agitation. "That's why we were seeing a counselor. I wanted to hate Dan together, but Larry was determined to forgive him. It was creating a lot of tension between us. Now I wish I hadn't…" she broke off, unable to continue.

"The victims in the other case had been missing before they were found dead, Mrs. Tipton. Had your husband or his brother been missing?" Sam asked after giving her a few moments.

"No, not missing," Susie wiped under her eyes, pulling herself together. "Larry and Dan had actually been away together for a few days, staying in a cabin that belonged to a friend of the family. Larry thought that time away might be healing for their relationship, and our counselor agreed." The bitter tone of her voice conveyed exactly what Susie had thought about the idea.

Dean caught Sam's eye and nodded towards the door.

"Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Tipton," Dean said. "We might need to talk to you again. Or if you think of anything else you'd like to share with us…" He handed her one of his FBI cards as they excused themselves.

"So, these victims had been missing, too, or at least could have been missing," Sam said as Dean drove out of the trailer park.

"Yeah, for some reason, these vamps are getting turned and ending up dead within a few days," Dean agreed. "Along with a family member – slash – victim that they had a serious beef with, or should have had a serious beef with. Sounded like Susie took it all way harder than Larry did."

"Makes me think Larry didn't go looking for revenge," Sam pointed out.

"This is crazy," Dean tapped the Impala's steering wheel in exasperation. "There's a vamp involved here somewhere, and there has to be some connection between the victims. I mean, the brothers with the sour business deal could have been picked from news reports. But, good god, there's at least 50-hundred bad divorces every week, and the vamp just happens to pick two people who are blood relatives?"

"I agree. They can't have been random. We just have to find the connection."


	7. Wolf Tales

Chapter 7 Wolf Tales

Neither Sam nor Dean knew what to make of the duo that greeted them at the front door. They had returned to Garth's farmhouse, having been invited the night before to come for dinner. Dean had spent much of the car ride over explaining to Sam how the meal would be different from what he might be accustomed to. Having previously shared a meal with a family of werewolves, Dean considered himself an expert on the situation.

"…and they mostly eat with their hands, especially the raw meat…"

"Dean, you mostly eat with your hands…now would you please just shut up…"

But it was not Garth, or even Bess or Emmie, who responded to their knock this time. Instead the Winchesters found themselves smiling tentatively at a very tiny, very wrinkled old Hispanic woman and a skinny, grinning little Hispanic boy.

"Hola!" the little boy piped up. "I'm Mateo. And you're Mr. Sam and Mr. Dean. It's very nice to meet you."

Mateo shook hands with a robust enthusiasm that belied his small frame. The little woman beamed at him for a moment, love and pride shining from her eyes, then she reached up and cuffed him on the back of the head.

"Muy bien, mijo. Pero que hay de mì?"

"Sì, Abuelita, sì," Mateo responded to her with an affectionate laugh, rubbing his head. He turned back to Sam and Dean. "And this is my grandmother. Her name is Señora Delfina, but everyone here calls her Granny, I mean Abuelita."

Abuelita stepped forward and clasped Dean's hand in both of hers. Her hands were rough and knobbly, with the papery thin skin of the very elderly, but the grip was strong.

"Mucho gusto, Señor Dean, muy bien." The old woman reached out one hand to pull Sam into the greeting, cricking her neck to look up into his face. "Y mucho gusto, Señor Sam."

"Uh…hey, hola…uh…" Dean was floundering, and he looked up with relief when he heard Garth's voice.

"Dean! Sam! I see you've met Mateo and his grandmother."

"We did, Garth," Sam said, smiling down at Abuelita who continued to hold his hand. "Mucho gusto, Doña Delfina. Còmo està?" The old woman broke into a wide, toothless smile and laughed heartily.

"Muy bien, Señor Sam, muy bien!"

"Abuelita, could you get Emmie from her room? And Mateo, please tell Justin that it's time for supper."

Mateo and his grandmother hurried away immediately to follow Garth's instructions. The brothers watched them in bemusement, then turned to Garth with eyebrows raised in question.

"Two of our Lupercal House residents right now," he explained. "They came to us about six months ago."

"Oh…oh…so they're both…uh…?" Sam fumbled as part of his brain started to blurt out the word "werewolf", while another part remembered that Garth preferred the designation "lycanthrope". Dean was less sensitive.

"You're telling me those two are werewolves?"

"Actually, only Mateo," Garth answered, his voice hardening. "We think it was probably the same monster that turned Emmie. Giving little kids the 'gift' was apparently his MO."

Mateo, his mother, uncle, and grandmother, had immigrated to the United States some three years previously, as far as Garth had been able to ascertain. Mateo had been somewhere around seven years-old at the time. After several months of struggling along on subsistence jobs, both Mateo's mother and his uncle had become involved in drug use and trading. Abuelita had been furious. She had refused to allow either of them any contact with Mateo when they were using or when they were with their new business associates. Eventually, both the mother and the uncle drifted away. Abuelita and Mateo had not seen either of them for over a year.

The young boy and his grandmother had been living in Phoenix, cycling through the city's offerings of rescue missions and homeless shelters, always moving on as soon as Abuelita sensed that someone in authority was growing too interested in Mateo. She was terrified of having her grandson taken from her, and Mateo was equally desperate to stay with the one person who had been his anchor of love and stability throughout his tumultuous early life.

They were living in a homeless encampment when Mateo stumbled onto the werewolf finishing off one of his victims. Staring at the creature, its claw-like nails and canid teeth covered in blood, the little boy had been too shocked and frightened to escape. But, just as he later did with Emmie, the werewolf had not attacked Mateo. Instead, he had promised him a gift, and then given the boy a deep, painful bite on the shoulder before disappearing into the night.

Mateo had returned to the little cardboard and tin shelter where he and Abuelita were sleeping, curled into a tight ball, and cried himself to sleep. Abuelita had woken in the morning to find him burning with a fever so high that the young child should have already died. She had been prepared to rush out to seek help for him, authorities be damned, when she spotted the bite on his shoulder.

"I don't know how, man, but she knew what that meant," Garth said, shaking his head in wonder.

The grandmother had half-carried, half-dragged the unconscious boy to an abandoned factory that stood nearly a quarter-mile away, and tied him up in a dark corner of the basement there. And then she sat with him, murmuring prayers in Spanish and Latin, as he changed into a different creature. She was amazed to find that he was still able to talk to her afterwards, still able to make sense, only crying and pleading with hunger.

She brought him rooster carcasses that she found thrown out behind a building where cockfights were held, and Mateo devoured them, ripping them apart with his teeth and bare hands. After that, he seemed better, almost normal again.

"The one who bit him, and probably Emmie, too, must have been a pureblood," Garth explained. "There's a hell of a lot we don't know about lycanthropy, but awareness of the change occuring, ability to control the change, and behaviour of a bitten individual seem to be based on a combination of the sire's bloodline and the personal temperament of the victim."

Sam's eyebrows shot up.

"Wow, Garth, that was quite an analysis" he said, obviously impressed.

"I do have a medical background you know. I'm treating this like a research project, gathering as much data as I can."

"Yeah, so what did that whole mouthful mean, Dr. Werewolf Dentist, M.D.?" Dean asked, obviously less impressed.

"It means, if you were a great little kid who got bitten by a pureblood, then you've got a really good chance of living a full life with lycanthropy as a manageable condition, like diabetes or something."

The back door of the farmhouse flew open at that moment, banging loudly into the kitchen countertop, and all three men turned towards the noise. Dean and Sam immediately took defensive stances, and Dean already had his hand on the pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. Garth, however, looked as if the commotion was not unexpected.

"And if you're a punk troublemaker, the jury's still out on your life expectancy," Garth added, the irritation obvious in his voice. "That would be Justin." He nodded towards the surly young man striding in through the back door.

Justin looked as though he was somewhere in his early twenties. He was short and wiry, with a shaved head and tattoos covering one pale arm and crawling up the side of his neck. He barged past Mateo, and only halted his advance at the last possible second to avoid running straight into Bess who was carrying a serving dish to the table. Justin ungraciously waved her past, and then slouched into a seat without offering any assistance in the meal preparations.

"What's his story?" Sam asked.

"Did he get bit by a werewolf-jackass hybrid?" Dean added, glowering at the back of the young man's head with eyes narrowed in disapproval.

"I think the jackass part was already there," Garth responded with a shake of his head. "About a month back, Kevin White and Ronny Hall took out a pack in Detroit – near twenty or more. The top werewolves were running it like a gang. They'd find dead-end kids like Justin there and bring them into the "brotherhood" or some BS like that. Mostly, they'd use them as runners, send them out across the city to find kills that wouldn't be missed."

Kevin and Ronny had been trailing the pack leaders separately, but when the hunters ran into each other and compared notes, they realized that they were on to something much bigger than a couple of individual werewolves. Once they had figured out the immense size of the pack, they called in reinforcements and made a raid on the headquarters. The contingent of hunters had successfully taken out all but one of the creatures.

That last one, Justin, had not attacked or fought back like the others. Instead, he had been discovered cowering in a corner. A vicious bite had been visible on his upper arm, but even as they watched, it had faded to a faint pink. And then he had started to turn right before their eyes – his face contorting to accommodate the powerful jaws and teeth of a wolf, hands curling as thick claws began to extend from his fingertips. A half-dozen pistols and shotguns were instantly cocked and pointed at his head. But, somehow, Justin had managed to fight the transformation – forcing the canid teeth to retract, the brutal claws to recede.

"See? See? I can control it. I don't want to hurt anyone, I swear…" panting with effort and terror, the young man had wailed and pleaded for his life. "Please don't kill me, please don't kill me…"

"So, they brought him here," Garth ended the story. "And he's been nothing but trouble ever since."

To Dean's amazement, the meal was nothing like the one he had previously shared with werewolves. Each plate had vegetables on it, each diner had a set of silverware. None of the plates contained anything that looked like an animal heart. Dean's plate, along with Sam's and Abuelita's, contained a beautifully cooked steak. Every other plate had what appeared to be a pile of finely chopped raw beef with bits of onion and peppers mixed in, looking for all the world like a plate of steak tartare that would have been served in an elegant restaurant. And no one ate with their hands, not even Emmie.

Noticing Dean's disgruntled look, and Sam's barely concealed grin as he watched his brother look around disbelievingly, Garth explained the change in circumstances.

"Gotta use the utensils, dude. We're all trying to learn how to live in the regular world, ya know?"

"Yeah, because we're all just regular pathetic people…" Justin muttered under his breath. Garth pointedly ignored him, but Dean turned a hard eye on the young man. Sam looked up with concern, too. Justin's words suggested a potentially dangerous attitude that Dean and Sam had encountered before – an attitude of disdain for humanity. It could definitely be a step in the wrong direction. Justin refused to make eye contact with either of the Winchesters.

"I was just surprised." Dean said, still staring at Justin. "Last time there were a lot more hearts, a lot less rare steak."

"Oh, it's still hearts…" Garth started to say, but Bess interrupted him.

"And spleens, and kidneys, and lungs, and livers," she said. "We try to use all the organ meat, but I fix it like this so everyone can practice eating properly." Seeing that Dean looked almost disappointed, Bess added, "but for desert, we do have blood popsicles."

Dean turned to Sam with a look of supreme triumph.

"Please don't encourage him," Sam said to Bess, and she and Garth both laughed.

They had only been seated a few more minutes when Justin, having shoveled the food into his mouth in a way that could only be very loosely described as "properly", jumped up from the table and turned to leave.

"Justin," Garth said. It was just the one word, but his voice held a tone of harsh command that Sam and Dean had never heard before from their easygoing friend. For a long moment, Justin merely glared at Garth. Garth held his gaze.

"May I be excused?" Justin finally snarled.

"You may," Garth's voice was still hard. "Clean up your dishes and finish your chores."

Justin stomped to the sink, banged his dish down with force just short of breaking it, and then slammed the kitchen door behind him.

"Malo," Abuelita said to the young man's receding back. "Muy malo."

After that, an unspoken tension seemed to leave the room. Garth and the Winchesters were soon reminiscing about old hunts, carefully editing their stories for the young ones at the table. Bess and Mateo were laughing aloud, and Abuelita was able to follow enough of the stories to understand the humor. Her wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. Emmie laughed, too, simply because it was now her habit to imitate everything Mateo did.

"Someone's ready for bed." Bess said after a while, looking over to see Emmie watching Mateo with heavy eyes, her head starting to nod gently. Despite the little girl's sleepy protest, Bess picked her up, brought her to Garth for a goodnight kiss, and had her wave good-bye to Dean and Sam. Then Garth urged a protesting Abuelita to follow Bess upstairs and get some rest herself and sent Mateo along to get cleaned up and headed to bed.

"Hey, you guys don't have to help," Garth waved the Winchesters aside as they began stacking dishes to carry to the kitchen. "I'll get all that in a bit. Tell me what you've found out about the deaths."

"Don't be crazy," Sam responded, as he and Dean continued clearing the table. "We can do dishes while we talk."

"Yeah, I'm more of a cook," Dean interjected, "but I can do dishes, too."

They carried dishes into the kitchen where Sam ran a sink full of hot water and began washing. Garth handed Dean a drying towel and then took the dry dishes from him and put them away. As they worked, Sam and Dean took turns adding bits to the story of what they had found out about the case.

"So, basically," Sam said, "there has to be some connection between the vamp and the victims…"

"But we don't know what the connection is, yet," Dean said, tossing the dishtowel across his shoulder as he leaned against the kitchen counter. Sam reached over and snagged the towel to dry his hands.

"I think our next stop is going to be talking to Tom Garner – the ex-husband of our vamp and the new husband of our victim," Sam finished. "We'll try to hit him up first thing in the morning."


	8. Served Cold

Chapter 8 Served Cold

The man was sitting in the chair beside her when she woke. Lyssa looked at him curiously and then scanned the small room around her, the dirt walls, the wooden plank ceiling. She recognized the man immediately, but the context wasn't right at all. Why was he here with her? And where was here?

"I'm hungry." The words were not the ones that she had intended to say. She had intended to ask where she was and how she had gotten there. Not that she was frightened. In fact, she felt amazingly calm about not knowing. Her location, her reason for being there, were just mildly interesting side-notes. Only one thing was really important. She realized it as soon as she heard herself say the words.

The hunger was like a physical presence inside her body, like some gaping black hole at the center of her being threatening to engulf her. Nothing else was remotely worthy of thought. It didn't matter where she was. She had to have… what did she need? She wasn't even sure. What could possibly satisfy this anguished craving? "I'm hungry," Lyssa repeated.

The man smiled proudly, pleased that the progress he had been looking for had finally been achieved.

"That's wonderful, Lyssa. I have just what you need." He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the manacles that chained her to the cot. Lyssa stood the instant she was free, ready to follow the man. He had promised her what she needed, and satisfying this need felt like a matter of life or…not death, something worse than death. "Come with me."

As soon as he opened the door leading out of the room, Lyssa heard the sound. A rhythmic, whooshing noise – a viscous fluid moving in pulsing waves. And the smell. Nothing had ever smelled that enticing. That was the thing she had to have. When she felt the fangs descending in her mouth, she understood what the noise was, what that rich, tangy smell was. Blood. She had to have blood.

"It's right there, Lyssa. All yours."

The door at the opposite end of the short hallway was unlocked. When she opened it, she saw that the room beyond held a grimy cot like the one she herself had been imprisoned on, a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and a boy chained to the wall.

"Lyssa! Lyssa, help me!" The boy jumped to his feet, reaching towards her until the chain around his ankle brought him up short. For the briefest moment, Lyssa felt a pang that had nothing to do with her hunger. The captive boy was her brother, Devon, and the relieved look on his face upon seeing her miraculously coming into his prison was pathetic.

It had been months since Devon had looked happy to see her. Since the accident, he had avoided her as much as he could. The sibling duo had once been the axis of the Rock Creek High School social circle, always involved in the same activities, always at the same parties. But the car crash had ripped the relationship apart. Lyssa could remember Devon's words to their therapist as clearly as if they had been spoken the instant before – _I feel awful about the wreck. Of course I do. But I can't change anything now. So, when she's around,_ – he had gestured at Lyssa without actually looking at her; he never looked at her anymore – _it's like I have to keep feeling bad all the time and remembering that I screwed up. How long am I supposed to feel guilty for something I don't even remember doing?_ And she had hated him for those words. Those words, spoken in cold sobriety, had been more painful than the drunken destruction he had wreaked on her body.

The thoughts, the memories, flashed through her mind in an instant, and Lyssa was left with two realizations. The first was that she would feed on Devon, and she would kill him. The need was much too strong to resist. It would be like pulling a drowning swimmer from the ocean, but asking them not to gulp in lung-fulls of air. The second realization, however, was what kept her standing in the doorway for just a little longer, fighting against the hunger, allowing Devon time to understand what was going to happen.

"How did you get out? Do you have a key?" Devon's voice was panicked, just on the edge of hysteria, but Lyssa did not speak, merely looked at her brother.

When the man came to stand behind her in the doorway, Devon's eyes widened in terror, and he started to yell, to warn his sister. But the man put a hand on her shoulder, and Lyssa did not flinch. She just continued to stare at Devon with cold eyes. And then he understood.

"Lyssa?" Devon whispered, his voice breaking.

"It's okay, Lyssa," the man whispered in her ear. "It's why he's here. He took everything from you, now you can take everything from him." That was the second realization. She was going to feed on Devon, she was going to kill him, and she was going to enjoy it because it was what he deserved.

Devon screamed as Lyssa stepped forward and shoved him to his knees. She pushed his head roughly to one side, exposing the vein that ran along his neck, and then made an inhuman sound of pleasure. This was not his sister. His sister could never be this strong; she couldn't have possibly held him down like this. His body thrashed, desperate to escape the creature, but he was helpless in its tight grasp. He saw the mouth open, the lips curling back to reveal rows of fangs, and he screamed again.

He was dead in less than a minute. At first, his still beating heart pumped the lifeblood forcefully out of his body. Lyssa drank in the rich, sweet liquid as fast as she could, the aching abyss inside her appeased at last. When the heart stopped beating, she sucked out every last drop of blood, until all that remained was a husk. Then Lyssa unceremoniously pushed that aside. He had treated her as an impediment, something to be ignored and put away. She would treat his body the same. Lyssa stood to face the man in the doorway, licking the blood from her lips.

"How do you feel?" the man asked.

Lyssa was suddenly struck by awareness of her own body. Now that the overwhelming need was sated, she could assess what else she was feeling. Or, more precisely, what she was not feeling. There was no pain. Her leg didn't ache; there was no back pain from her ungainly walk; the mangled skin on her arms didn't pinch and sting at every slightest touch; the throbbing in her head, a constant companion for the last few months, had disappeared. There had been pain for so long, and now it was completely gone. She stretched one arm out in front of her, feeling the strength and power there, turning it this way and that in amazement. The scars were still there, but they looked fierce and beautiful. They were just souvenirs from the old Lyssa, the weak Lyssa that she would never be again.

"I feel awesome," she replied. "Better than I've felt in forever."

The man stepped into the room, his face grave.

"I'm glad," he said. "Glad that you got to have your revenge. But now, we have to deal with you, Lyssa." In his right hand he held a long machete, the light from the bare bulb glinting off of its wickedly sharp blade.


	9. We'll Leave the Light On

Chapter 9 We'll Leave the Light On

Dean and Sam woke to the sound of shattering glass coming from just outside their room.

"What the hell?" Sam sat up in bed, reaching for his gun on the nightstand, but Dean was already making strides towards the door. If someone was screwing around with the Impala, which is what the noise sounded like, they were about to seriously regret it. His hand was just reaching for the doorknob when something smashed through the window of the motel room, sending glass flying. Immediately the room filled with a thick, noxious smoke.

"Sam!" Dean hollered, already unable to see anything. He began gagging and dropped to his knees. The smoke was acrid and dark, and he felt a caustic burn as he took a breath. He dropped to the floor, lying flat on the greenish-beige carpet, and pulled his t-shirt up so that it covered his nose. Where was Sam? _Don't make me come after you, man_ – "Sammy!"

"Dean!" Sam's voice sounded above him, and Dean heard the doorknob rattling just before the door was flung open straight into his ribcage. "Sorry, sorry…" Sam mumbled when he heard his brother's grunt of pain. Dean felt something soft and heavy fall onto his head, and for a split-second he started to wrestle against it. Then he realized that it was a sheet. Sam, with admirable clarity of mind, had snatched the sheets off his bed as soon as he saw the projectile come through the window. "Wrap that around your head!"

As Dean struggled to swath his head in the linens, Sam reached down, fumbled blindly for a moment, and then grasped Dean under the arm. He dragged his brother roughly to his feet and then shoved him back long enough to open the door fully. In the next instant, he pulled Dean forward and they were both standing outside in the fresh air.

All along the length of the motel, people were emerging from rooms to see what had caused the noise. They stared, agog, at the sight of Dean and Sam standing on the sidewalk, barely clothed and turbaned in bedsheets, gasping for air as black smoke poured out of their open door and shattered window. Panic quickly followed as people assumed that there was a fire in the room. Someone pulled an alarm, and the sidewalk and balcony above were soon flooded with the motel inhabitants. Those in the rooms closest to the Winchesters began frantically retrieving their belongings, hampered in their efforts by those who had come to see what was going on and gawk at the proceedings.

"Dammit… what the hell just happened?" Dean growled, as he and Sam pushed through the crowd and stood in the parking lot, blinking in the chill night air. Dean noticed that Sam had also had the forethought to shove bare feet into boots before leaving his bed. "Go get my shoes, man…and the bag."

Sam immediately plunged back into the room, which was already beginning to clear, and emerged momentarily carrying Dean's shoes and their weapons bag. If the local law enforcement response happened to be swift, that was the last thing they wanted found in a search of the room. He found Dean standing barefoot at the back of the Impala, the bedsheet wrapped around his shoulders, looking as though he had taken a punch to the gut.

"They busted my baby's taillights," Dean said in a wounded voice as Sam handed him his boots. "Those sons of bitches…"

The sound of sirens wailing snapped Dean out of his mourning. He quickly popped Baby's trunk and Sam flung the weapons bag in the hidden compartment before slamming the trunk shut.

The next hour passed in a surreal blur of emergency lights, panicked civilians, and over-eager law enforcement. Five police vehicles, two fire trucks, and several ambulances – due to the number of motel guests who complained of panic attacks and shortness of breath – eventually swarmed the scene. The police were particularly enthusiastic when they realized that Sam and Dean were not merely victims of random vandalism, but were, in fact, FBI agents. Could the attack have been intentional? Could it relate to their investigation?

"Why the hell do they keep saying 'attack'"? Dean asked Sam in disgust after giving his statement, for the third time, to a deputy. They were seated on the Impala's back bumper waiting to see who would want to talk to them next. So far, Sheriff Clintlock had not shown up, but they had been promised that he would be there at any moment. They were both trying their hardest to be patient with the investigation, figuring that if they could just play through it, without raising too many questions, it would make the hunt easier in the long run. They had dutifully refrained from re-entering the motel room since the deputies had been eager to "secure the scene". At least someone had brought clothes out to them, although being forced to dress in the middle of the parking lot had almost been the last straw for Dean. "It was just a freakin' smoke bomb. Have any of these guys ever actually been attacked…like, by anything?"

"Probably never tangled with a ghoul…" Sam said, distractedly. His eyebrows were drawn together, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

"What?" Dean prompted.

"Was this thing seriously just random, man? I mean, if we're on a vamp's tail, this is a pretty lame reaction."

"True…" Dean agreed.

"And if it's not random, it's like someone was just trying to throw a speed bump at us. Not really hurt us, just slow us... "

"Do you have your phone?" Dean abruptly began searching through his pockets as he broke into Sam's musings.

"Uh…" Sam did a quick patdown of his own pockets. "No…no, I don't…I didn't get it when I went in for your shoes and the bag. They haven't let us back in since then. Do you think…?"

"Son of a bitch!" Dean jumped to his feet. He barged through the group of deputies and bystanders on the sidewalk, and stormed towards the caution tape that cordoned off the entrance to his and Sam's room.

"Hold up, you can't go…" one of the young deputies started to say, but he quickly fell silent at the look on Dean's face. Sam followed closely behind him as they ducked under the tape and entered the motel room. Dean made a beeline for the nightstand. Their phones both lay there, but the indicator light was blinking on the top of Dean's. He snatched it up and pressed the voicemail button.

"Agents, I was hoping you both could come to the station with me." At the voice, Sam turned away from Dean, who had his phone pressed to his ear impatiently waiting for the voicemail to play, to see that Sheriff Clintlock had arrived on the scene and followed them into the room.

"Sure, Sheriff, just give us…" Sam started, but then Dean grabbed him by arm. Sam turned to see his brother's face. The phone was still pressed to his ear, but Dean's eyes were wide, his expression stricken at whatever he was hearing. Without any explanation, he began pushing past Sheriff Clintlock and the deputy behind him, clearly expecting that Sam would follow.

"We have some emergency business to take care of," Sam said to the sheriff. He started to follow Dean out of the room, but Sheriff Clintlock put an arm out to block him.

"Now, look here, this is sort of an emergency, too, Agent." The sheriff clearly felt that they were solidly on his turf in this situation. He might have been shaken by the gruesome murders, and grateful for the FBI's help, but he expected to work as equals in the investigation of this attack.

Sam drew himself up to his full height, something he rarely did, and allowed a hint of his true capacity to show on his face.

"We have an emergency. We'll let you know when we're ready to talk to you." The words were quiet and clipped, and Sam's voice left no room for argument. The sheriff dropped his arm and stepped back, the hairs on his neck rising just a little. Sam pushed quickly under the caution tape. Dean had already backed the Impala out of the parking space, scattering deputies and emergency personnel. He threw the passenger door open and then accelerated out of the parking lot as soon as Sam jumped in the car.

"Listen to that," he commanded, tossing his phone into Sam's lap. "Somebody WAS trying to slow us down." Sam pressed the playback on the voicemail.

"Dean, I could use some help." It was Garth's voice on the phone, whispering and short of breath, an undercurrent of panic evident. "It's hunters, 'cause they're closing in on the house." There was a pause for a few seconds, and then Garth's voice again. "If you get this message, we…no…no, no, no, no!" And the voicemail abruptly cut off.


	10. The Hunter Becomes

Chapter 10 The Hunter Becomes

Lying in bed, Garth's eyes snapped open. The tiniest noise, the sound of someone treading on strewn gravel, had awakened him. But not the sound of someone walking on the gravel driveway. No, someone had trodden on a bit of the stray gravel along the side of the drive. Someone who was deliberately not walking on the driveway because they were trying to hide their approach. Only Garth's wolf senses had detected the sound.

He felt the change start to come over him as the creature within sensed danger and prepared to defend itself – the long claws extending from his fingertips, the canid incisors thrusting his lips forward. His ears pricked up, straining to detect the faintest noise. Garth felt his heart begin to race, and he quickly took several deep breaths, fighting to remain in control of himself.

"Who is it?" Bess whispered. She had not been awakened by the noise but by Garth's sudden tension. Now that she was awake, though, she too could hear the stealthy footsteps moving slowly towards the house.

"It's got to be hunters," he whispered back. "They're at least two-hundred yards out, no way any regular person could hear them yet, but they're already being quiet. Only hunters would know they're trying to sneak up on werewolves." A deep, menacing growl sounded from Garth's throat, in spite of his effort at calmness.

Bess lay her hand firmly on his chest.

"We have to take care of Emmie, and everyone else," she spoke softly. "We have to be the best people we can be to help them." Her tiny emphasis on the word "people", her quiet voice, brought Garth to his senses. The claws and teeth retracted. His breathing slowed. _This is why we're better together_ –

"Get Emmie, head to the kitchen. I'll meet you there with everyone else." Garth was out of the bed and moving before Bess could say another word.

They all convened in the kitchen less than a half-minute later. Bess was carrying a still sleeping Emmie. Mateo and Abuelita were wide-awake, still and silent, awaiting instructions; it wasn't the first time they had been forced to move quickly in the middle of the night. Only Justin looked panicked. Garth was trailing behind them slightly, and Justin jerked as though a cannon had gone off when Garth entered the room and lay a shotgun on the counter. He started to speak, but Justin cut him off.

"You told me it was safe here, man! You said I didn't have to worry. I've been playing along with this shitty little farmboy game because you said…" Justin hissed at him, his voice growing louder as he continued. Emmie began to stir fretfully in Bess' arms.

"You shut up!" Garth pointed at the hysterical young man. "Pull it together right now, or, so help me, I'll put a bullet in you myself."

Justin fell silent, but continued to glare balefully at Garth.

"Now here's what we're doing," Garth continued. "I count six out there, and they're all coming from the main road to the front of the house. Y'all are going to leave out the back door and go to the barn. You're going to go straight to the truck and head out across the field. I'm going to stay here and…" But that was as far as he got before clamors of protest broke out.

"No! Garth, please don't stay!" Bess begged. "We can all leave together, we can all…"

"No, Mr. Garth! I'm not leaving you!" Mateo cried. "I'll stay. I'll fight with you. Let me…"

"Dios ayudanos…dios ayudanos…" Abuelita murmured feverishly, wringing her gnarled hands together.

Garth's voice cut across them.

"Take Emmie and keep her safe," he said to Bess. "I'll just talk to them, I promise. But I have to head them off here at the house. It'll be okay." Garth's eyes pleaded with her to do as he asked, but Bess looked as though she wanted to continue arguing. Garth turned to the young boy then, pressing the keys to the truck into his hand. "Mateo, I need you to look after Ms. Bess and Emmie, can you do that for me?"

Mateo paused, then nodded gravely. He put a hand gently on Bess' arm. Mr. Garth had given him a job, and Mateo was not going to disappoint him.

"Ms. Bess, come with us – please. I can drive the truck, but it would be better if you did it."

"Come on!" Justin hissed. "Let's get the hell out of here!" He stood with his hand on the back door, frantic to leave.

"Please, Garth…" Bess' voice broke. Everything was happening too quickly – it couldn't possibly be real. If they could just think for a minute. If they could just stay together. But her husband's face was set; he was not changing his mind. Finally, Bess gave a tiny nod.

Garth hurriedly kissed both his girls, then shuffled the group as quickly and quietly as possible out the door. He turned, grabbed the gun from the counter, and ran up the stairs and to the front of the house. He could see the six figures moving stealthily forward, still nearly a hundred yards away, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Just as he had suspected, they were staying in a group, approaching from the front, unaware that their presence had been discovered. They would wait until they were right at the house before they fanned out to surround it, and that should give his family and the others plenty of time to make it to the truck and escape. How he would deal with the hunters at that point was something he had not yet fully envisioned.

Garth pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and redialed the last person he had talked to – Dean Winchester. To his surprise, the call rolled to voicemail without being answered.

"Dean, I could use some help. It's hunters, 'cause they're closing in on the house."

He paused, listening to scuffling sounds coming from behind the house. It was nothing that was audible to the humans, but what was it? _What the hell's going on out there?_

"If you get this message, we…"

Suddenly, Garth heard the barn door flung open, screeching on rusty hinges and banging against the side of the barn, terrifyingly loud in the still night. And he looked on in horror as the hunters froze and then quickly regrouped. He saw one of them gesture sharply to either side of the house, and they split into two groups, running flat out now that they no longer had any need for secrecy.

"No…no, no, no, no!" Garth felt sick. He flung the phone down and ran for the steps, through the downstairs to the back door. He heard the deep rumble of the pickup truck turning over, but knew that there hadn't possibly been time for everyone to have made it inside. He burst through the back door and felt a white-hot pain cross the back of his neck a split-second before he heard the crack of the pistol shot.

The bullet had only grazed him, but the impact threw him forward onto the ground. He looked up to see the headlights of the truck bouncing away across the field behind the barn. Bess, still holding Emmie, and Mateo and his grandmother stood helplessly in front of the barn as men rushed towards them, hollering and gesturing at them with guns.

Garth had just risen to his knees when a heavy blow struck the back of his head and everything went dark.

"What the hell are we waiting around for? What about our plan?"

"Our plan was to burn down this god forsaken place – and put down werewolves. But that's a goddamn kid!"

"We gotta get out of here…we gotta go…this ain't what I signed up for…"

"So, you think we're just gonna walk out of here? Say 'my bad' and everybody gets a good laugh?"

Garth heard the voices, but he couldn't place them – couldn't figure out who they belonged to, or how they fit into his dream. He thought drowsily about ignoring them and falling back to sleep, then a memory suddenly seized his attention. The stricken look on Bess' face as she stood in front of the barn, half crouching, trying to shield Emmie with her own body from the men and their weapons. Garth came suddenly wide awake.

He was tied to a post inside his own barn, the ropes that were cinched around his waist and chest holding his body upright – not unlike another time he had been tied in the same barn. That time had been Bess' stepmother and cousins attempting to start their own version of a werewolf revolution. And that time the Winchesters had come to their rescue. Had they gotten the message that Garth left on Dean's phone?

These thoughts flashed through Garth's mind as his gaze roved frantically about, seeking out Bess and Emmie. He finally found them by wrenching his head to the left. They were seated on the barn floor, slightly behind him. They were alive, and relief flooded through Garth. They were alive.

Emmie sat silently in Bess' lap, her eyes huge, and Mateo and Abuelita sat beside them. Two of the men stood very close to them, their guns pointed at the small group huddled on the floor. Garth could almost picture what had happened and what had caused the scuffling sounds and the reckless noise of the barn door being opened. Justin had tackled Mateo as they were on the way to the barn. He had stolen the keys to the truck and run ahead of everyone else, heedless of the noise he created, intent only on saving his own skin. And he had escaped alone in the truck.

"Garth…" Bess breathed his name with joy when she saw him turn his head.

"Daddy…" Emmie cried.

All six of the hunters turned instantly to stare at Garth. He recognized two of them – Mitch McGill and Drew Everly. Garth had met them years ago when their paths had crossed on a hunt, but he did not know them well. The other four men were complete strangers. Mitch's stance and positioning gave him the appearance of someone in charge, so Garth decided to try his luck there.

"Mitch, you don't need to do this, man. You don't want to do this."

"I told you he'd recognize you!" one of the other men pointed accusingly at Mitch. "Now we came here to do a job, let's finish it."

"Shut the hell up, Creed," another one of the strangers spoke up. "I already said I ain't taking no part in shooting kids. Or little old women, neither." He gestured to where Abuelita sat, eyes half closed as she continued murmuring fervent prayers under her breath. Mitch raised his hand and made a sharp, quelling sound. Both of the men fell silent.

"What kind of messed up crap you got going on here, man?" Mitch said to Garth. "Are ya'll all monsters? Even the little one?"

"You're the one pointing guns at my family, Mitch. That's what's messed up," Garth replied. "Put the guns away and we can talk about this – we can figure something out."

Mitch blew out an impatient breath, shaking his head vehemently from side to side.

"I can't do that, man, you know I can't do that. We put our weapons down and your little pack here attacks us…"

"We don't want to hurt you. We don't want to hurt anyone," Garth interjected.

"You're monsters!" the first man, Creed, spoke again. "Of course you want to hurt us."

"I didn't come to your home," Garth snapped back, his voice suddenly deepening. "I didn't point a gun at your wife and baby girl." He could feel his skin prickling, his heart rate increasing, and he turned his head again to meet Bess' gaze, hoping her composure would calm him.

"You see that?" Creed demanded, addressing himself to Mitch. "You see what's happening? He's about to turn on us right now!"

"Creed, I don't want to hear any more from you," Mitch spoke in a tired voice. Where had everything gone sideways? Monsters had to be killed, it was just that simple – it had always been that simple. But his previous experience with monsters had never included a mother holding a frightened child, or a skinny little boy trying to position himself between his grandmother and men with guns. _Where the hell did everything go sideways_?

Drew spoke up for the first time.

"We have to do something, Mitch. You know the Winchesters are going to be on their way soon, if they're not already. That smoke bomb stunt isn't going to hold them long."

"You're not as dumb as you look, Drew." Dean's voice sounded from just outside the barn door.

Every one of the hunters spun to face the door, and Creed fired a shotgun blast that reverberated throughout the barn. Emmie screamed shrilly, jumping from Bess' lap to run to Garth and squeeze herself between his legs and the barn post. Hearing her and catching sight of her movement, several of the hunters whipped around yet again, uncertain as to where to aim their weapons, where the greatest danger lay.

"Come out here where I can see you, Dean!" Creed bellowed, his gun still trained towards the door. "You Winchesters cause more trouble than you're worth, anyway!" He fired the shotgun a second time, this time through the side of the barn. Everything was going to hell.

"Dios ayudanos!" Abuelita wailed in a loud voice as Emmie screamed again and began crying.

"Son of a bitch! Put your guns down!" Dean hollered, and then Sam's voice joined him. "Lay your weapons down! Now! Lay them down!"

"For godsake, Creed, put it down!"

"You're gonna get us all killed!" Several of the hunters were hollering now, and one of them threw his rifle to the ground and held his hands up in surrender. Two others quickly followed suit.

In the chaos, Bess scooted over next to Garth and Emmie, pulling Mateo and Abuelita with her. Bess was not in good shape. She had been calm and composed for as long as she could, but the gunfire, and Emmie's terror, were pushing her past control. She looked up to see Garth, teeth bared and eyes wild, just barely hanging on to his humanity. Even little Mateo was in danger of transforming. She could see that he was breathing erratically, and his eyes were huge. He looked horrified, and Bess heard a whine of fear coming from him as their eyes met.

"Ms. Bess…I don't know if I can stop…I'm scared…"

Among the werewolves, only Emmie seemed in no danger of turning. Her sense of self-preservation seemed concentrated on only one goal, and that was wrapping herself more tightly around Garth's legs. Bess reached out to grab Mateo's hand, her other hand on Emmie's head.

"Hold on, baby," she said, speaking to both Emmie and Mateo. She looked up again at Garth's anguished face and spoke to him, too, and to herself. "Please hold on."

Another shot rang out, but this time it originated from outside the barn. Creed gave a roar of pain and crumpled to one side, his shotgun falling to the ground as both hands reached to grasp his leg. One of the Winchesters had shot out his knee.

"Everyone shut up!" Mitch yelled above the din of voices. "We're disarming, okay? Don't shoot!" He handed his gun to Drew, and raised his hands in the air. Drew collected the remainder of the weapons, including the one lying next to Creed's head as he writhed and moaned on the barn floor, and deposited them in a pile near the door.

"On your knees!" Sam commanded. "Everyone down on your knees!" When the hunters had all complied, he and Dean entered the barn, guns held ready.

"Except for you, dumb-ass," Dean gave the injured Creed a wide grin that was completely devoid of any sympathy. "You can just keep rolling around on the ground there." Dean's gaze then fell on Garth and Bess and his expression immediately sobered. "We need to get these guys outside, Sam, like yesterday."

Sam nodded curtly. He could also see how close Garth and Bess were to their breaking point. If they could just get the group of hunters out of the situation unharmed, other than the gunshot which Creed had clearly been asking for, they might be able to salvage things.

"Get those guns," Dean ordered, and Sam quickly began gathering the pile of weapons. "And, you two," he waved Mitch and Drew forward, "pick up your buddy there and haul him out. We're going to discuss this out in the open where everybody can just calm down."

Mitch and Drew hoisted a moaning Creed, one under each armpit, and helped him hobble outside. The other hunters followed, stepping out under a sky that was just beginning to lighten with the impending sunrise. Dean was right behind them. He shared a brief but significant glance with Sam just before he exited, and Sam jerked his head towards the group huddled around Garth and nodded. He understood. Dean would try to talk some sense to the hard-headed group of hunters while he, Sam, helped Bess and Garth and the others.

"Wrap that knee up…Reggie? It's Reggie, right?" Dean pointed at one of the hunters. The man looked highly discomfited at being recognized and mumbled "yeah" without actually making eye-contact with Dean. But he drew a handkerchief out of his back pocket and quickly did as he had been told. Creed cussed and hollered through the entire process.

"You sonabitch, Dean Winchester. I'll take you down if it's the last thing I do, so help me. Somebody shoulda done it years ago, but I'll make sure…" Creed's tirade came to an abrupt halt when Dean cocked his pistol and pointed it at the center of Creed's face.

"You need to learn when to shut your mouth, Creed," Dean said.

Just then, a figure tore around the corner of the barn in a blur. One minute, Mitch and Drew were standing there holding Creed upright between them. The next, they were bowled aside by the charging creature which landed on top of Creed. The man screamed in pain as vicious claws tore down the length of his neck and chest.

Dean blinked in shock. Creed had been standing practically right in front of him, and now suddenly he was gone. He didn't even have time to figure out what was happening or who had attacked the man; Dean just instinctively moved to defend him. Tackling the figure, Dean shoved whoever it was to the ground and quickly rolled him over.

Justin.

The werewolf slapped the gun out of Dean's hand as if it were a plastic toy. He reached up, his hands and claws bloody, grasped Dean on either side of the head, and then jerked downward, bringing Dean's forehead crashing into his own.

Dean staggered, his vision tunneling in to blackness, defenseless as Justin forced him to the ground and planted a knee in his back.

"Goddamn hunters!" Justin roared. "I'm going to kill every goddamn one of you! I'm sick of crawling and kissing your asses when I'm stronger than any of you!"

He raked his claws down Dean's left side, shredding through jacket and shirt and skin, and leaving behind deep furrows. Dean, still working to regain a firm grip on consciousness, hollered and spasmed in pain.

"I'm sick of running away when I should be fighting!" Justin rolled Dean's body over and struck him across the face, his heavy claws scoring Dean's neck and cheek. "And I want to see your face when I pull your heart…"

"Let him go!" Justin jerked around at the sound of Sam's voice, his hand hovering just above Dean's chest. "Let him go, now!" Sam hated having to shoot the young man that Garth had been trying to save. But Justin just snarled at him in rage, and Sam realized that the werewolf was not going to stop. A gunshot rang out, and Justin's body twisted, his hand falling lifeless to Dean's chest.

Sam hadn't even had time to take his shot. In that brief moment, Garth had emerged from inside the barn, swinging a shotgun into position and blasting a spray of silver buckshot through the werewolf's chest. The young man's body fell to the ground, and Dean winced and shuddered as retracting claws slid across his wounded side.

Dean and Bess looked up expectantly as Garth appeared in the bedroom doorway, Sam just a few steps behind him. Garth stepped into the room and went straight over to where Bess stood, engulfing her in a fierce embrace. Sam leaned against the doorframe and gave Dean, who was sitting on the end of the bed, an appraising look.

"How are you feeling, man?" Sam asked. Dean was in the process of easing a t-shirt down over the swath of bandages that now covered almost the entire left side of his torso.

"Hurts like hell, thanks for asking," Dean replied with a grimace. Sam just smiled. If Dean was being bitchy, then he wasn't feeling too bad.

"It took a while to get the bleeding to stop," Bess interjected. "and cleaning all of the bits of fabric out of the wounds was a nightmare. But I think I got it all, and it should heal just fine."

"You were awesome, by the way," Dean nodded gratefully to Bess, and she ducked her head with a shy smile. "So, what happened with the goon squad?"

Sam and Garth looked at each other and shrugged.

"Hard to say," Sam answered. "Creed finally shut up for good once he figured out that you saved his ass. The others weren't saying much…"

"Mitch kept trying to call it a misunderstanding," Garth added, his tone bitter.

"I don't think they'll be back," Sam finished, "and I think they might spread the good word to leave Garth and Bess and the rest of them alone."

Dean rose from the bed where he had been seated and crossed to the dresser, examining his face in the mirror. The scratches on his neck and cheek were not deep. They were, however, oozy and aggravatingly painful in a way that only minor cuts could be.

"I guess I'll have to tell Sheriff Clintlock that our other emergency involved a rabid animal," he said to Sam. "Speaking of, we probably ought to get back to our regularly scheduled case." Dean turned then to Garth. "I'm really sorry about Justin."

"I'm sorry it turned out that way," Sam added. "I wish we had done something…"

"You couldn't have done anything to change it," Garth cut in, waving off the apologies. "I don't think it was going to work out, no matter how much I wanted it to. But you saved my family, amigos. That's all that matters. I can't ever thank you enough for what you..." He broke off, teary-eyed, and wrapped Sam in an earnest hug. Then he turned to Dean.

"Hey, now…" Dean started, backing away with one arm held stiffly in front of himself and the other arm cradled defensively against his injured side, "whoa there, buddy…" Bess stepped in quickly.

"Garth! Don't you dare mess up my stitches!"


	11. The Doctor is In

Chapter 11 The Doctor is In

Sam and Dean had just settled into the Impala – Dean apparently suffering a bit more than his brother had realized, because he had actually tossed the car keys to Sam – when Sam's phone rang.

"Speak of the devil, it's the sheriff," Sam said as he answered. He listened intently for a while, asked a few questions and listened again. From the end of the conversation that Dean could hear, he suspected that additional victims were now involved.

"So, what's up?" he asked as soon as Sam ended the phone call. "More bodies show up?"

"No, a missing person's report." Sam steered Baby back towards town as he explained Sheriff Clintlock's call about missing teenage siblings. "Twins, apparently, and they were supposed to be back from some wilderness retreat last night. The sheriff said he wouldn't normally put much stock in a couple of teens who didn't come home, but he thought we might be interested."

"Are we?" Dean replied. "Interested?"

"Afraid we are. This one fits our victim profile."

Dean, who had gingerly leaned back against the car seat, his eyes almost shut, sat up and looked sharply at his brother.

"Okay, I get the whole family theme, but what could freaking high school twins have done to each other?"

"Well, sadly enough…" Sam explained what Sheriff Clintlock had relayed to him about the brother and sister, Devon and Lyssa, and the car accident they had been involved in the previous year. "And get this, they were on this very secluded retreat because their therapist, Dr. Stanwyck, suggested they should spend some time together with no distractions, to work through their issues."

"Hold up a second…" Dean remembered something Larry Tipton's widow had told them. Larry and Susie Tipton had also had a counselor who agreed with the idea of the victims spending some time away from other people. "So, you think this therapist, or counselor, or whatever, is the same one Larry Tipton was getting advice from?"

"Exactly," Sam agreed. "I'm thinking this Stanwyck may be our guy. There's definitely a pattern of victims being sent away, out of contact with everyone. It would keep anyone from realizing that they'd been abducted until it was too late."

"Plus," Dean added, "posing as a therapist would be a great way to troll for vics if you get off on sucky family dynamics."

He lay back once again and closed his eyes wearily.

"I guess we ought to check back in with the Rock Creek police chief," he said.

"Yeah, I guess so. But there's that diner on the way in. I thought we might…"

Dean sat back up immediately. "Oh, hell yeah."

Chief Parnell looked at them with unmistakable suspicion. It didn't help that they were both obviously unshowered and unshaven, or that their suits, hanging as they had been in a room where a smoke bomb had been recently discharged, smelled as if the two agents had been setting off bottle rockets all night. Agent Moreve's face was the thing that was really giving him pause, though. Four long, thin scratches started just below his jawline and traveled up and across his cheek. They had definitely not been there yesterday when the FBI visited.

"Rough night?" he asked, staring directly at Dean.

Sam could almost hear Dean's jaw clenching.

"There was a disturbance at our motel last night," Sam jumped in with the explanation he and Dean had agreed over breakfast was the least ridiculous. "Two women – my partner was just trying to defuse the situation."

"Uh-huh…" Chief Parnell just continued to stare at the red, angry marks.

"Fake nails," Dean added, with a tight smile, holding his curled fingers up to his face and miming a clawing motion. "I'm sure you've been there yourself."

"Mmm-hmm…" the police chief gave both Winchesters another long, skeptical look, and then finally turned his attention back to his desk. "Now what were you needing to know about the Tipton case?"

"We need to know if you have any information on a counselor that Larry and Susie Tipton were seeing together," Sam responded, relieved to be past the discussion of Dean's face.

"Yep," the police chief said. Nothing else followed.

"…and…?" Sam prompted.

"We talked to him. Nothing to learn."

"You talked to him?" Sam replied. "I don't remember seeing anything in the report about a suspect interview, Chief."

"He wasn't a suspect, Agent Kay," the chief snapped, annoyed. "He was someone we talked to."

"I thought you categorized these deaths as accidental?" Dean said, incredulously. "Why were you talking to the therapist of a man who accidently got himself beheaded?"

Chief Parnell looked as though his head might just explode.

"I don't expect federal agents to understand this," he ground the words out through tightly clenched teeth, "but we don't always advertise the whole truth right up front. Citizens tend to get less upset about 'accidental deaths' than they do about homicidal maniacs who drain people's blood and chop their heads off."

The chief placed his hands on his desk and half rose from his seat, leaning aggressively forward. "And I would appreciate it if you two would just leave my department alone and let us do our job."

Dean placed his hands on the other side of the desk, rising and leaning in also. "And exactly which job would that be, Chief? The one you haven't been able to do for over six weeks now? Face it, you don't have the first clue what you're dealing with."

"Then you two talk to Dr. Stanwyck all you want, for all the good it'll do you!" the chief snarled. "Talk 'til you're blue in the face for all I care. Just get the hell out of my office!"

He pointed at the door, but Dean didn't look as though he had any intention of budging. Sam sighed deeply, stood up, and grabbed his brother by the arm.

"Thank you for your time, Chief Parnell," Sam nodded to the police chief who was still standing at his desk, glowering at Dean. Dean was glowering right back as Sam steered him out of the building.

"Alright, alright, get off me!" Dean jerked his arm out of Sam's grip as they crossed the parking lot.

"Dude, what the hell was that?" his brother spat back. "What is wrong with you?"

Looking a little deflated now, Dean surreptitiously tucked his arm against his injured side. He'd be damned if he'd admit to the pain. "Okay, yeah, I overreacted a little…" he mumbled sheepishly. Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"If you'd just taken the meds like I told you to…" Sam knew him too well. "Fine, I'm taking you to the motel room."

"Well, what are you going to do?" Dean asked, like a petulant child.

"What do you think? Chief Parnell said the Tiptons' counselor was Dr. Stanwyck, just like with the missing twins. I'm going to check out our suspect."

"The hell you are, not by yourself," Dean's former belligerence flared up instantly.

"Calm down," Sam said. "I'll make sure he's in his office, and then I'll check his house, alright? I'm not going to confront him or anything."

"Okay," Dean agreed, not entirely mollified. "just be careful."

"Absolutely, mom."

Dean woke groggily, his eyelids heavy and slow. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, but found that he was not yet ready to actually stand up. The pain in his side had definitely toned down, but it was still aching unpleasantly. Dean wondered how long it would be before he could reasonably take more of the happy pills that Sam had forced on him. He reached blindly for the water sitting on the bedside table and took a long drink. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the clock. He'd been out for about three hours. Where was Sam? _Wait, where the hell is Sam?_

Dean snatched up his phone and listened impatiently to the ringtones.

"Hey, you awake? How you feeling?" the sound of Sam's voice answering the call sent a wave of relief through Dean.

"Where are you?"

"Almost back to the motel," Sam answered. "I'm bringing you lunch. Do you feel like eating?"

Dean did, in fact, feel like eating, and Sam reported what he had found while his brother scarfed down a cheeseburger and fries.

"Nothing – house was totally clean."

"You think he keeps everything in his office?" Dean suggested.

"It's got to be that. Or else, he's got some other location entirely," Sam mused.

"Tell you what," Dean said. "let's check out the office tonight. If the house was that clean, there's got to be something at the office."

For the next few hours, Sam looked for any information he could find on Dr. Stanwyck, while Dean slept off and on, finally rousing to go to the restroom.

"So, Dr. Stanwyck has been in town about eight months," Sam began talking as soon as Dean came out of the bathroom, seeming to be awake for good this time. "That would fit our theory of getting clients and locating his preferred victims."

"Has he got any other property? Anywhere he could hold people or stash bodies?" Dean stood in front of the mirror examining the bandages on his torso, trying to decide if he should take them off and attempt a real shower. He cautiously attempted to peel off one corner of the adhesive.

"No…not that I can find…" Sam answered, looking at the notes he had taken. "But he does own the building where his office is located, and there's an unoccupied basement." He looked up to see Dean concentrating on a corner of his bandage. "Hey, leave that alone. You need to keep that on for a couple of days, at least."

"I hate not being able to take a shower," Dean said, grumpily.

"Yeah, well you can still wash up," Sam pointed out. "And, believe me, I'd appreciate it if you did."

They returned to the diner to eat, waiting for dusk to ease into heavy night, then drove to the office building and circled the block. When they were certain no one was in the building, they parked along an empty alley and made their way to the back door. Sam picked the lock, and they entered the building, did a swift check of the ground floor, and then immediately searched out the door to the basement. Both drew their guns as Dean did a silent three-count and then swung the door open. There was nothing but silence and pitch-black below.

Dean led the way as they eased down the steps. Their eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and they were about halfway down when they realized that the staircase ended at another closed door. Again, the three-count, and again Dean swung the door open. It screeched loudly, and both Winchesters stepped into the basement, guns held at the ready.

Only to find nothing. The basement was completely open and completely empty. Sam reached back into the stairwell and flicked a light switch, and the basement flooded with harsh fluorescent light. They could see that it was carpeted and painted, but nothing else had been done to the space – no office walls, no cubicles. There were two bathroom doors at the far end of the building, but that was it.

For the sake of thoroughness, Sam went over and opened each bathroom door and looked into each tiny room. He turned to Dean and shrugged.

"Nothing."

"Awesome," Dean responded. "Okay, let's check out the upstairs."

The upstairs was just as devoid of anything sinister as the basement had been – waiting room, bathrooms, patient rooms, kitchenette – all were completely benign.

"Let me get into his records and see if I can dig anything up," Sam said as they entered Dr. Stanwyck's office. He sat down behind the desk and turned on the computer. Dean sat in one of the office chairs, shifting around noisily for a bit, looking for a relaxing way to sit that didn't put any pressure on his left side. Finally, he settled back and closed his eyes.

"Did you find a comfy spot, princess?" Sam asked with absent-minded snark as he tugged on desk drawers looking for an open one.

"I did, thanks for your concern." Dean replied, without opening his eyes. "What are you doing over there?"

"Looking for passwords. Most people keep them on a super safe sticky note in their desk," Sam said. "But apparently the good doctor is a little more clever than that. Let's hope the receptionist is less conscientious…" He stood and walked out to the waiting room.

"Let me know when you've got something," Dean said with a yawn. He could hear Sam in the reception area tugging on desk drawers and shuffling papers around.

When the noises fell silent, Dean opened his eyes. Maybe Sam had found something, or logged onto the receptionist's computer? Dean's glance fell on the clock on Dr. Stanwyck's office wall.

"Son of a bitch!" He had been asleep for a half-hour. Dean jumped up and ran to the waiting room, a sick feeling bubbling in his gut. The waiting room was empty. Sam's phone, and his backup phone, both lay on the reception counter.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean hurried from room to room. Sam was nowhere upstairs. Dean charged down to the basement again. It was just as empty as before. He ran back up the stairs. "Sammy!"

Dean had just entered the reception area again when the front door of the office building swung suddenly open and a man stepped inside.

"Stop right there! Let me see your hands!" Dean demanded. "Let me see them!" He had pulled the gun from his waistband the instant he heard the door, and he held it firmly in both hands, pointed at head level. The response was not what Dean expected.

His aggressive approach had backed the man against the wall, his arms in the air, and the poor guy looked as if that wall was the only thing that was holding him upright at the moment. Dean stared at him – _either this vamp i_s_ the best actor ever, or this is just some dumb shmuck about to have a heart attack_ –

"Who are you?" Dean asked, waving his gun to emphasize the question.

"Robert…Robert…uh…Stanwyck…Dr. Stanwyck…" the man finally managed to stammer out. "I…this is my office. I don't have anything here…any money…anything valuable at all…"

Dean's heart fell when he heard the name. This was their suspect, and it was highly unlikely that he was any kind of monster. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dean brought out his fake FBI badge.

"Agent Moreve, FBI…" he announced, flashing the badge quickly at the doctor. "We're investigating the recent murders, and you've got a connection to a couple of them." The man, already pale and terrified looking, blanched even whiter at the accusatory tone in Dean's voice.

"Yes, yes…I worked with Larry Tipton and his wife. I didn't actually work with Dan…" the doctor started to explain, but Dean cut him off.

"Did you know Lyssa and Devon Cate were missing?"

The doctor looked stunned. The news seemed to come as a genuine shock.

"No…I had no idea…they had an appointment…"

Again, Dean interrupted him – _time to brass tack this thing – _

"Show me your gums."

"Show you my…my gums?"

"Show me your gums," Dean repeated, waving the gun impatiently. "Pull your lip up, show me your gums."

Looking bewildered, Dr. Stanwyck slowly lowered one arm. He pinched his lip in his fingers and pulled up.

Dean leaned in close and examined the exposed gums. No fangs – nothing. He tucked his gun back in his waistband.

"Did you see anyone at all outside?" Dean asked. The doctor just shook his head mutely. Clearly, the oral cavity exam had been just a little too much to process. "Yeah, well, sorry to bother you…"

Then, knowing the futility of any attempt to explain his actions, Dean simply pushed past the dumbfounded man and exited the building.

There was no trace of Sam, or anyone else, in the parking lot. There was no trace of his brother anywhere.

Sam was just gone, and Dean had no suspect at all.


	12. There Will be Blood

Chapter 12 There Will be Blood

The last thing Sam remembered was sitting at the receptionist's desk in Dr. Stanwyck's office, searching for passwords. The question of how he had gotten from there to the cellar room where he now lay, chained to a bed, was one he could not answer. The question would have to wait anyway; all of his thought was currently consumed with finding a way to free himself.

Raising his head, Sam could see that the manacles around his ankles were attached to the bedframe with only a few inches of chain. The chains at his wrist must have been similar in length, for he was unable to lift his arms even above the level of the mattress. No matter how he attempted to move, it was impossible to reach his pockets. Of course, that was assuming the pocketknives and lockpicks were still in his jeans – probably just wishful thinking anyway. He began feeling blindly around the bottom of the bedframe, hoping to find some weakness or something that he could use to fashion a pick. His hands encountered nothing but flakes of rust and chipping paint. _Something else…what else could I use…?_

When the man spoke from the doorway, Sam's head snapped in that direction.

"Finally awake. Good!"

"Who are you?" Sam asked. "Dr. Stanwyck?"

"Nope. Nice try, though. It did make it easier for me to track you and your brother – I mean, once I realized who you suspected."

Sam's eyes narrowed at the mention of his brother.

"Where's Dean?"

"Don't worry. I haven't touched him," the man responded. "He's probably running around somewhere in a complete panic, wondering how he's going to find you. You did leave him with zero viable suspects, you know. Once he figures out that Dr. Stanwyck is a dead-end, he's going to be pretty lost. You are the brains of the duo, right?"

"If you're not Dr. Stanwyck, then who are you?" Sam asked again, ignoring the snide commentary.

"No need for you to worry about that." The man smiled then, and Sam saw the vampire fangs descending in his mouth. As he approached the bed, Sam tensed for the attack. But it did not come as he expected. Instead of leaning in to rip at Sam's neck, the man clamped one hand on Sam's forehead and held him immobilized. In the man's other hand, he held a syringe filled with a thick, dark liquid. He shoved the syringe into Sam's mouth and depressed the plunger, forcing the blood down Sam's throat. Then he stepped back as Sam gagged and coughed.

A spray of blood and saliva spewed from Sam's mouth as he simultaneously gasped for breath and tried to spit out the ghastly fluid. The man just laughed as Sam choked and retched.

"Don't even try. I made sure you got a nice big dose," he said.

"What are you doing? What did you do to me?" Sam hollered, still coughing and spitting.

"We're going to have some fun," the man replied as he left the room. "I'll be back to check on you soon."

Sam clenched his jaw, his entire body arching and stiffening. The pain washed over him again in a roaring, cresting wave and then receded, leaving him weak and shaking. He collapsed back against the mattress, his breathing shallow and choppy, and tried to collect his thoughts. The waves of pain were coming closer and closer together, and he was finding it more difficult to regroup after each one. Even when the worst pain had subsided for a moment, he still felt awful – his eyes and throat burned, he was covered in a clammy sweat, his joints ached, his head throbbed. His body was wrecked.

Sam turned his head feebly towards the door as he heard the man enter the room again. He came and stood over Sam, his eyes searching out every detail of the ongoing transformation.

"Good lord, what is wrong with you?" the man said, his tone amazed.

"What?" Sam's voice was faint. "You did this. Don't you know what you did?"

"Trust me, I've turned hundreds of humans into vampires, and it's never looked like this." The man tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe the stories about Sam Winchester are true?"

The stories. Sam could easily imagine what those might be – Sam Winchester, the chosen one of a Prince of Hell; Sam Winchester, the demon-blood junkie who brought on the Apocalypse; Sam Winchester, Lucifer's prize meatsuit. Too many stories, and too many times that his body had been razed and ruined. Apparently, it was too damaged to even turn into a vampire like a normal person. Sam felt the familiar sick shame in his gut.

The man sat beside the bed and unrolled a packet of syringes, this time with needles attached.

"Maybe this will help," he said in an almost conciliatory tone, then he winked. "Or then again, maybe it'll make things much worse." He held one syringe up and pressed the plunger until a tiny drop of blood welled up at the tip of the needle. "Dead man's blood," he explained as he pressed the needle into the skin at the crook of Sam's elbow.

The dead man's blood burned like fire being injected through his veins. And the man was right, it did make things much worse. Now, instead of living through the pain, Sam was slogging through a dreamscape of agony and horror – fighting to awaken and return to the simple, concrete anguish of mere physical torture.

The man stayed nearby, fascinated by the progression of Sam's transformation. He had seen humans turn almost instantly into vampires, and he had seen some take long hours or days to complete the transformation. But he had never seen the prolonged agony that this Winchester seemed to be going through. The man pulled Sam's eyelids up and flicked a penlight across them, watching as the hugely dilated pupils slowly contracted. He watched as wave after wave of heat passed through Sam's body, leaving him sweat-soaked and trembling. He administered frequent doses of the dead man's blood. And he calculated how long it might be before he needed to find Dean.

_This is even more fun than I thought it was going to be_.


	13. A Hunting We Will Go

Chapter 13 A Hunting We Will Go

"I don't understand. Can you ask that again?" Tom Garner replied for the second time to one of Dean's questions. Dean fought down his rising impatience and tried to remember that the man had just lost his wife in one of the most gruesome ways possible. He wasn't sure now that this interview was even worth his time, but Tom Garner was the person he and Sam had planned to speak to next. That plan seemed almost a lifetime ago now, so much had happened in the interim – the raid on Garth's home, the false trail of Dr. Stanwyck, Sam disappearing. Dean was here now because he really had no clue where else to begin.

"Did your wife, or your ex-wife, have any connection with Dan or Larry Tipton?" Dean repeated, then he elaborated a bit. "Business connections, social connections, went to the same gym…"

"I don't think so," Tom replied, slowly. "Is that important? Who are Dan and Larry Tipton?"

"It is important, Mr. Garner. A connection might help us figure out who killed your wife." Dean was sorry that he had come. Tom was obviously not coping well with the deaths.

They were sitting in Tom's mother's living room, and she was sitting next to Tom on the couch. She jumped in to help answer as she had before.

"He's just forgotten, Agent. Sheriff Clintlock told us about the murders over in Rock Creek, and I have tried and tried to figure out if Kate, or Leslie, would have known the Tiptons. I just can't come up with any connection at all."

Dean noted that Tom's mother mentioned Kate, the ex-wife, first. She had done the same thing when she answered a previous question for Tom. It wasn't hard to figure out which of her son's wives mom had preferred. Dean addressed his next question directly to her.

"Mrs. Garner, do you know if Kate had anyone she would have been likely to confide in, or maybe…" Dean tried to phrase his question delicately, but Mrs. Garner interrupted.

"You mean anyone she might have cried to when her cousin stole her husband and ruined her life?"

Dean blinked a little, the woman's bluntness a shock as she sat next to the aforementioned husband. Tom, however, seemed to have not even heard.

"I know what you're asking, Agent. Sheriff Clintlock said the other murders were two brothers that had fallen out. You think maybe the family backstabbing thing is some kind of connection or maybe motive." Mrs. Garner sighed. "Until just a few months ago, if you had asked me who Kate might have confided in, I would have said her cousin Leslie. They were thick as thieves. Then there was the affair…and the divorce…so now, I just don't know what to tell you. Maybe she talked to someone at work?" She shrugged helplessly. Tom just stared at the ground. Seeing that there was little to be gained from continuing the interview, Dean excused himself. Tom's mother walked him to the door.

"I wish we could be of more help," she said, obviously distressed. "I really want whoever did this to be caught. Maybe you could talk to some of the other teachers?"

"I think I will, Mrs. Garner," Dean answered. "Thank you both for your time."

He slid in behind the wheel of the Impala and started the engine, but then realized that he wasn't sure where he was going to go next. Talking to people that Kate had worked with might be a good idea, but it might also be hours of wasted time. Once more, Dean tried not to think what wasted time might mean for Sam.

Whoever had taken his brother had left him, Dean, sleeping in the room right next door. That fact alone gave Dean a nagging suspicion about what might be happening to Sam. This vamp was playing with them, and Dean was afraid that he might be playing his favorite game – turning humans into vampires. He feared that Sam might be the human getting turned this time.

Dean knew from personal experience exactly how difficult and disturbing it was to transform into a vampire, but the thought of that happening to Sam worried him for reasons even beyond the transformation itself. He knew better than anyone else, probably better than Sam himself, just how much his brother had endured over the years. Dean knew all of the "stories about Sam Winchester," too, but to him that meant something very different from the shameful memories that came to Sam's mind.

To Dean, they were stories of Sam's sacrifice – Sam Winchester, who threw himself into the cage to defeat Lucifer and who had his soul flayed in consequence; Sam Winchester, who endured the trials and imparted a bit of humanity to Crowley, a humanity which had saved both Winchesters more than once; Sam Winchester, who had spent a lifetime fighting to overcome an evil that he had been subjected to as a helpless infant. To Dean, they were stories of a person who had fought, and kept fighting, and done so much good.

But there was no denying the truth. Each fight, each battle, had taken a toll on Sam. He had been shattered time and again. He always managed to keep going, but Dean didn't know if his brother could go on through this. Would Sam's body be able to endure the transformation to a vampire? And what would be left of Sam when the transformation was complete?

Dean turned out of the Garner's driveway and headed towards the trailer park where Susie Tipton lived. He couldn't explain why, but something was telling him to go back there. Maybe the connection wasn't just between the victims; maybe the connection was between people who told the betrayal stories. In their first interview with her, Susie Tipton had sounded much angrier at her brother-in-law than her husband had been. Maybe she had unknowingly revealed her feelings to a monster.

He drove once again down the little street that ran the length of the trailer park, pulled into the gravel space in front of the trailer, and then knocked on the Tipton's front door. Susie Tipton opened it, and her brows drew together in a worried frown as she saw the FBI agent standing there.

"Agent Moreve, come in," she said, taking a small step back to allow Dean to enter. "Is your partner not with you today?"

"He's been called on another case right now," Dean replied. "I just had a few more questions for you."

"Go ahead, Agent," Susie said when they were once again seated in the tiny living area. Again, she looked as if she were braced for a blow from fate, and Dean tried to be gentle.

"Last time we talked, Mrs. Tipton, you seemed to have taken the business failure even harder than your husband had…" Dean trailed off, sometimes an incomplete thought could garner more information than an outright question.

"I guess I did," Susie agreed. "That business failing ruined us, and it was all Dan's fault. Larry tried to pretend that it was just a mistake, or ignorance, or anything other than what it was – just stealing, pure and simple. Dan never cared about the consequences for anyone else. Larry just tried to deny it."

"You said you were seeing a counselor about the issue?"

"Yes, Dr. Stanwyck was trying to get my husband and me 'back on the same page' he said. But, honestly, it wasn't going very well. Larry refused to listen to anything that put any amount of blame on Dan."

"So, you couldn't actually talk out your feelings about Dan?"

"No, not with Larry, I couldn't. I would have gone crazy without someone to listen to me," Susie replied, a look of profound sadness on her face. Then, sensing that the conversation had wandered into dangerous territory, she looked warily at Dean. "What do my feelings have to do with Larry's death, though? You said I wasn't a suspect again. Is that still true? I know I didn't have much of an alibi, what with school being out that day…"

"Not a suspect, I promise. I'm just trying to…" something pinged in Dean's mind. Mrs. Garner had suggested that he might talk to the people that Katie Seaver worked with, the other teachers, and the latest missing persons were high school students. "What do you mean about school being out?"

"Well," Susie explained. "when Larry was found, they estimated he had been gone for a couple of days. That would have put the event on Monday. We were out of school that day for parent/teacher meetings, but I didn't have any scheduled, so I was home all day alone. I just assumed that Larry had decided to stay a little longer on his trip with Dan. I had no idea I would need to prove where I…"

"Where are you a teacher?" Dean interrupted, his voice harsh as his suspicion grew. Susie looked startled.

"Rock Creek High School," she answered.

"Did you talk to anyone there about the business, about Dan's embezzling?"

"Well, yes…I had someone I talked to a bit…it was one of the male teachers…" Susie hesitated, looking embarrassed. "I know it sounds awful, complaining about my husband to another man, but he was just a friend, and I didn't think any harm…"

"What was his name?"

This time, Susie looked genuinely frightened at the aggressive tone of Dean's voice.

"I don't see why…"

"Mrs. Tipton, are you aware that Lyssa and Devon Cate are missing? They were students at Rock Creek, isn't that right?"

Susie Tipton gasped, the color draining from her face.

"Lyssa and Devon? Missing?" she said in a frightened whisper. "Lyssa had a class with him. I remember talking after their accident…"

"Mrs. Tipton! What was his name?"

"Bryce…Bryce Neal. He's a history teacher."

Dean paced back and forth in the motel room. The question he was pondering was actually very straightforward– north or south? – but he felt certain that the correct choice was crucial.

He was sure now that Bryce Neal, history teacher at Rock Creek High School, was the vampire who had taken his brother. Earlier, Dean had left Susie Tipton in a state of shock and confusion and driven immediately back to the motel, to the room he and Sam had moved to following the smoke bombing. On the way there he called Tom Garner, but instead of Tom, he got Tom's mother on the phone. _Good…great…she's better to talk to right now anyway –_

His rapid-fire questioning soon had Mrs. Garner just as confused as Susie Tipton.

"Agent, what can I…"

"How long had Kate been at her job?"

"She'd been a teacher for nearly…"

"No…no…" Dean interrupted, "how long had she been at that school?"

"Oh…well…" Mrs. Garner stumbled over her words as she tried to keep up with the agitated FBI agent. "She'd just started there this year, actually. Before that she worked at…"

"Rock Creek High School, I bet," Dean finished for her.

"Yes, exactly. Are you thinking of talking to some of those teachers? That's probably a good idea because I know she had some close friends…" But Mrs. Garner trailed off as she realized she was talking to herself – Agent Moreve had already ended the call.

Dean researched everything he could about Bryce Neal. Sam could have found out more, and definitely found it quicker, but what he had was enough. Bryce Neal had purchased a home in Rush City, Minnesota just over two years ago. A few months after that, he had purchased property in Randall, Wisconsin and then within a few more months, property in Pine Terrace, Minnesota. Both of those properties were remote, and the one in Randall definitely had at least one building on it. Either looked completely adequate for Neal's morbid hobby of initiating family death matches. So now, the question – north or south? North would take him to the property in Pine Terrace, south would take him to the Randall property.

Dean's hand ran absentmindedly over his face in obvious frustration. _If Sam were here, he'd be waiting for me to say something, and I'd just throw a direction out to see if he agreed or if he argued. Son of a bitch…_ Dean abruptly grabbed the Winchester weapons bag. He carried it to the trunk of the Impala and added an extra knife, then tossed it in Baby's passenger seat. He pulled out of the motel parking lot with tires squealing and made a right turn at the first light. He was heading south. With no one to agree, or to argue, Dean concluded the best decision was just to move.

The Randall property was miles away from the main road, down a gravel drive that was blocked by a gate only a few yards in from the turnoff. Dean backed out, drove the Impala further down the road, and pulled it over under a stand of pines. The entire property seemed to be densely wooded, but he knew from the sale documents he had found online that a house was located towards the center of the property.

Dean carried one of their large knives in his hand as he walked cautiously down the drive. He could hear nothing other than the soft crunch of gravel beneath his feet. It was just early afternoon, and the day was clear, but the drive was thickly covered with overhanging branches so that it already lay in dusky gloom. As he moved, Dean tried to keep his thoughts away from what might be happening to his brother. _All I have to do is gank this vamp, get the blood, and I can have the remedy mixed in no time. Sam'll be sick as a dog, maybe even worse than I was, but he'll be fine. He'll be okay –_

The house, or more appropriately shack, seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Coming around a little bend in the drive, Dean found himself suddenly standing within ten feet of the front door. He could see trees looming over the back of the ramshackle building and realized that the clearing behind the house must be even smaller. It was as if the house were being slowly devoured by the surrounding woods. There were no vehicles anywhere to be seen, but the drive did split into two and run on past the house on both sides, quickly being swallowed up in the trees. A car or truck could be parked anywhere down either path.

Dean pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and positioned it in his free hand. In the other hand, he held the knife ready to be used. He stepped onto the front porch and carefully tested the doorknob. It was locked. Was it worth the effort to use his pick, or should he just kick the door in? After a split-second of deliberation, Dean chose the latter option. The door, surprisingly sturdy in contrast to the building's overall appearance, splintered around the knob mechanism when he kicked it and then swung open with creaking slowness. He shone the flashlight quickly around the interior – one open room, bed, table, chairs, kitchen area, trapdoor in the center of the floor. Completely empty of man or beast.

Stepping inside, Dean shone the flashlight more thoroughly into each corner. He was just turning away from the bed when he heard a noise coming from below him, a scuffling and a tremulous intake of breath. Someone or something was in the cellar. Hurriedly, Dean threw open the trapdoor and found himself standing at the top of a flight of wooden steps. The flashlight beam illuminated a short hallway at the bottom of the steps, branching off to the right and left. The cellar looked as though it were larger than the dilapidated house which stood above it.

The noise was louder now, although it was being deliberately muffled. Someone frightened, crying? Dean stepped slowly down the stairs. Below, there was a door at each end of the hallway. The noise was coming from his left. This time, when he tested the doorknob, Dean found that it was unlocked. He pushed the door open and then did a quick sweep of the interior with the flashlight beam. A girl, huddled in the far corner, screamed as the light fell across her face.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded, stepping inside the room. He shone the flashlight rapidly around the whole of the interior, then came back to the girl when he found nothing else. "Who are you? Are you Lyssa Cate?"

The girl only nodded without speaking, cringing away from the flashlight. Dean lowered it from shining directly into her face.

"Are you hurt? We need to get out of here right now. Is anyone else down here?"

"I don't know…" the girl finally spoke in a quavering voice. "I don't know about anyone else. My leg…I don't think I can walk…"

Dean approached the girl, shining the flashlight down, expecting to find an injury to her leg. She was dressed in shorts and a tank top, but there was no visible wound or swelling to be seen. There were, however, scars crisscrossing both her arms and legs, standing out in stark relief against the shadows cast by the flashlight beam. _She's the one who was almost killed in the car wreck. She's the one who was betrayed by her brother. Maybe Neal doesn't always kill the fresh vamps _–

But the connection was made too late. Dean had already gotten too close, and the girl surged up from the floor, leaping and focusing all of her considerable new strength into slamming Dean's head into the concrete block wall of the cellar. He only had time for one thought before darkness rushed in to overwhelm him. _Should have gone north_ –


	14. Lydia

Chapter 14 Lydia

Dean was startled awake by the pain in his arm. He was being hauled up by someone pulling on a pair of handcuffs, one end of which was attached to Dean's right arm. The someone fed the other end through a heavy bolt on the wall and then snapped that bracelet shut on Dean's left wrist.

"Glad you could join us," Neal said, seeing that Dean was conscious once more. "Lyssa did a fantastic job, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah, she's quite the actress," Dean mumbled. He was struggling to find his feet, to stand up so that his arms were not holding the weight of his body and shaking his head to clear it. _Where am I?_ He was definitely not in the room where he had found Lyssa. The floorboards above his head said that he was in a cellar still, but the walls here were of packed dirt, not concrete.

"You're not in the same place as before," Neal spoke as though he had read Dean's thoughts. "I had Lyssa wait there in case you tried that location first. She brought you to me as soon as she knocked you out."

Dean finally managed to gain his footing and turned to face the vampire.

"So, I guess you're Bryce Neal," he said. "Yeah…your girl did an awesome job. You must be so proud."

Neal laughed at the mocking tone in Dean's voice.

"I am actually," he replied. "Quite proud, thrilled even. I always have to kill my new vampires – although you already know that I suppose. All the trouble I go to, so they can have their revenge, the offer of eternal life I give them, and all they can do is wail and moan about 'What have I done? What have I done?' But finally, my beautiful creation appreciates the gift I've offered. For the first time ever – after so, so many – Lyssa shows real promise."

"How many times have you done this, you crazy bastard?"

Instantly, Neal brought one foot forward in a sweeping motion. The kick knocked Dean's legs out from under him, and Neal was rewarded with a cry of pain as Dean's fall was jerked up short by the handcuffs biting into his wrists.

"Let's show a little respect now, Mr. Winchester," he said as Dean struggled to his feet again.

"Fine. How many times have you done this, Mr. Neal?"

"Much better. And I've been doing this for longer than you can possibly imagine, little boy," the vampire gloated.

Dean returned a mirthless smile. He really wasn't interested in getting into a conversation – he needed to know where Sam was, and he needed to know quickly.

"I can imagine an awful lot, but I don't really care. Where's my brother?"

"Your brother is close by," Neal said, "and I think he's probably just about ready for you."

"Ready? What do you mean ready?" Dean demanded.

"I think you know, Dean," Neal replied with a slow smirk. "And let me say, I've never seen anyone go through so much agony for their transformation. I really wasn't sure he was going to survive it. Your brother Sam is one..messed..up..freak."

Dean's insides felt like ice. He had feared that Neal was turning Sam into a vampire, but hearing his fears confirmed was gut-wrenching.

"Don't you say that about my brother, you filthy bloodsucker," Dean said quietly. Neal just laughed.

"I figured your brother Sam was barely human before I changed him, so I was actually quite surprised…" as he spoke, Neal stepped in closer and closer to Dean, taunting him. And when he had stepped in close enough, Dean threw one elbow out and swung his arm, hooking the handcuff chain under the vampire's chin, grabbing the bolt with his hands and pulling both himself and Neal upward. Caught off-guard, Neal struggled wildly as Dean clung to the bolt, pressing the chain into the vampire's throat with all of his might.

But the vampire's strength was too much for the shackled Winchester. As he writhed and fought, Neal landed a vicious blow on Dean's already wounded left side. Pain surged through Dean's body like a jolt of electricity, causing every muscle to seize and shudder. He couldn't hold on. Neal twisted free as Dean, unable to hold himself up any longer, slid down the wall, gasping for breath.

"You stupid, pathetic human!" Neal spat the words at him in fury. "I've spent nearly two centuries punishing people who betray their family, evading hunters the whole while, and you think you can beat me? You think you have the slightest chance of winning?"

Only a couple of his words actually registered with Dean.

"Two centuries?" Dean panted. "How freakin' old are you?"

For a moment, Neal said nothing, just glared at Dean in white-hot rage, deciding whether his game was worth the effort or if he should just feast on the hunter's blood himself. Finally, he spoke.

"You should know this. As the last thing you ever know before your own brother feeds on you, you should know who I am. I've gone by many names over the years, and I've played so very many roles – a teacher, a priest, a mobster – but I do have a true identity." The vampire gave a sneering smile of introduction. "Robert Bryce O'Neal Trevalyan, at your service."

In 1814, Edward Trevalyan, the cash poor son of a titled Englishman, was assured by all of his more well-to-do friends that owning property in Ireland, and receiving rents from said property, was really the only way to finance a lifestyle centered around drinking, gambling, and other assorted vices. Without the funds to purchase property, Edward achieved his goal in the most expeditious way possible – he married an Irish lass. She received the title she and her family had always coveted, and Edward received property, rents, and a few months of living in a country that he considered a god-forsaken abyss. He would later report to his friends that "bedding the wife, and other assorted swine of the village, was certainly good fun, but I'm glad to be home to civilization."

Robert Bryce O'Neal Trevalyan was born in 1815, some months after Edward had returned to England. Over the years, the mother and child received only a handful of visits from the man. He was not missed. Robert's mother had what she wanted from her husband – a title, and an heir to carry it on.

The young boy was raised in the "grand house," in conditions truthfully little better than those of the downtrodden peasants who worked the land, but that was of no consequence to his mother. She saw to it that Master Robert was raised on tales of the mighty rulers of Ireland in his lineage; accounts of the noble title which set him even further apart from the humble serfs which his family ruled over; and stories from the Old Testament – focusing on retribution and glorious conquer, and assiduously omitting any precepts of mercy or charity. Young Master Robert was an excellent pupil, and the aloof arrogance which his mother had always displayed soon became seen as very near congeniality when compared to the son's demeanor.

Robert was fifteen years old when his mother was struck with a fever and died within the week. Edward Trevalyan paid for a casket, came for the burial, and promised his son that within a year he would bring Robert to England to live with him and receive a proper education. Instead, Edward returned to his home country, and finding that, due to a complicated aspect of Irish property law, the rent payments would now belong to Robert; promptly remarried. The Englishwoman he married was frail, sickly, and quite wealthy. Many a man had overlooked her charming riches in fear that she would be unable to bear them the sons that they desired. Edward had no concern on this matter, though. If he should ever want a son, he reasoned, he could always call on the one he already had.

To his surprise, Edward's new wife managed to bear him one child – a daughter, Lydia – and then linger on in failing health for the next sixteen years. Once she finally died, though, Edward found himself in the position that he had always dreamed of, funded and completely unencumbered. The wives – dead. The daughter – away at a young ladies' finishing school. The son – playing at being lord of the manor on his dreary Irish estate. Edward could finally have his life of careless abandon. Without the constraints of his wife's family lawyers; who had controlled his access to funds for the past sixteen years while she was alive; Edward's ability to dine, drink, gamble, and make questionable investments flourished. Within four months of his second wife's passing, Edward Trevalyan had managed to spend or speculate away an enormous fortune. And then he was shot and killed in a duel.

The shambles of his estate, the sorting of which would benefit no one other than the lawyers, provided no means for payment of Lydia's school expenses. So, the young girl was packed off to her only living relative, a half-brother in County Kildare. Of all the souls on earth in the year 1846, Lydia Trevalyan was one of only a handful who immigrated into Ireland. For the most part, beggars were leaving the country in droves as the great potato famine decimated the vulnerable population.

Lydia was young, delicate, and beautiful. Her introduction to Ballyniall – which is how the Trevalyan lands were still known; the inhabitants had paltry little other than their pride, and they refused to use the English name – was the equivalent of dropping a fresh, pink rose into the center of a dung heap. Robert was instantly enthralled.

The young lord had been entirely unconcerned all those years ago when he had received the news of his father's remarriage. Having acquired his rightful possession of the rents of his estate, Robert saw no reason at all to debase himself by traveling to England and putting himself under a lesser man's tutelage. After all, Edward Trevalyan's lineage might have provided Robert's title, but his father had not descended from a long line of rulers, as Robert had. Young, conceited, and unrestrained, Robert used everything and everyone in Ballyniall as he saw fit. And now, just as he had reached that point in his life where he had begun to think of taking a wife and producing an heir, a young woman worthy of his attentions had appeared as though by divine intervention.

Lydia's protests as to the impropriety of an intimate relationship between them seemed to have no effect on Robert's intentions. She was appalled when Robert would hold her and caress her, and she would beg him to stop lest someone should see the shameful behavior, but Robert assured her that he made the decisions in Ballyniall and that no one would dare to fault his actions. Finally, after several weeks of increasingly forceful attentions, Lydia appealed to her last recourse.

That evening, as Robert attempted to pull her into his lap as she passed him in the dining hall, Lydia jerked away and faced him head-on.

"No! It is wrong, my lord! In God's eyes it is wrong that we…"

Robert stood abruptly, slapped her across the face so hard that her lip split and her teeth cut into the inside of her cheek, and then dragged her by her wrists to his bedroom. His patience was spent – it was time that Lydia understood who was God in Ballyniall.

Alone and bewildered, Lydia had only one friend in her new life. Nora was the young wife of the local blacksmith. She was known as a fine laundress and often came to the manor house to help with the work. She and Lydia first met on the morning that Nora found Lydia hidden amongst the piles of dirty linens, crying and shaking. Rather than jeering at her as just another English interloper, or dragging her by her hair back to her brother as the senior housemaid had once done, Nora spoke gently to her and made the girl a cup of bracing Irish tea.

After that, the two became fast friends. Nora could do nothing to help change Lydia's situation, but she was kind, and Lydia clung to her. When Nora whispered with blushing excitement that she, Nora, was with child, Lydia rejoiced with her. As the months passed, though, Lydia began to grow more and more disturbed.

Childbirth was an enormously risky undertaking in that time, for both the mother and the child, and the risks were only exacerbated by poverty and malnutrition. But childbirth in Ballyniall seemed to have an especially ominous pall surrounding it. There were tales about crying infants heard where only a stillbirth had occurred. Whispers of young mothers, strong and vital one moment, pale and bloodless the next. Descriptions of bodies, mothers and infants, lifeless and wasted in ways which defied explanation. And every tale, every half-spoken horror, included the handywoman, Dame Ciara. As Lydia listened to the birth stories, which were told and retold amongst the serving women of the household, it seemed that no baby had ever been born, or died, in Ballyniall without Dame Ciara there in attendance.

No one could recall how long Dame Ciara had been accompanying the births in Ballyniall. It seemed that she was older than living memory. Whenever Lydia would question this fantastic possibility, though, or probe anywhere near the subject of the handywoman, backs would turn and tongues would fall silent. The women of Ballyniall seemed to be simultaneously worshipful of and terrified by the old woman.

"You mustn't ask questions, Lydia," Nora told her, fear etched on her face. "Dame Ciara helps many to safe birth, and those that don't make it…" The young woman's voice trailed off, her countenance troubled, no explanation given. Then like the others, she refused to say another word to Lydia about the woman.

Lydia's concern for her friend was certainly sincere, but there was an additional reason for her interest. Her time had not come in over two months. Lydia's hours were now consumed with the thought that something abhorrent, something born of the unseemly relations that her half-brother forced upon her, was growing inside her body.

She had learned very little about the world in her finishing school, but even there she had heard how unwanted consequences could be done away with by making a trip to the midwife. What good did that knowledge do her, though? Lydia was terrified of Dame Ciara. Equally as terrifying, though, was the thought of anyone finding out what she and Robert had done. Over and over, she considered the possibility of visiting the handywoman, only to recoil in fear from the very idea, and then to sicken with shame at the thought of giving birth to the child growing within her. Her thoughts were like wailing banshees swirling in her mind, unable to escape and unable to find any peace.

Lydia had passed a sleepless night when her maid and the senior housemaid entered her room together. They found her standing by the window, staring blankly into the distance, her face as pale as the weak morning light, deep circles shadowing her eyes. She turned to them and knew instantly that something was wrong.

"Oh, Miss Lydia, it's just awful…" the maid said before dissolving into tears. Madame Deirdre, the senior housemaid, was left to deliver the news herself, which she did with ghoulish pleasure.

"Nora's baby came last night. Neither mother nor infant survived the birth. Dame Ciara was quite distraught, I hear." The woman did not even attempt to hide her smirk. "The poor woman was already upset, though. I fear she was so concerned with what you, as the lady of the house, might think, that she was unable to properly attend to your friend. You should not have put your English nose where it did not belong."

Perhaps Madame Deirdre had anticipated the opportunity to relish a devastating scene of crying or hysterics or even fainting, but none of those things happened. Lydia merely stared at them for the briefest instant then turned back to the window. She realized that there was no use for tears now, there was not a soul left in the world to care. Her voice was calm when she spoke.

""Have my horse saddled, Deirdre" she said without looking at either of the servants. "and I'll have my riding habit, Dorcas." She did not turn back to her room until the woman had left, dragging Dorcas behind her, venting her frustrated expectations on the girl. "Stop that sniveling!" Lydia heard her snap at the young maid, and then the sound of a sharp slap. Eventually, the room was silent once again.

Lydia was seated at her vanity, carefully brushing her hair, when Dorcas reentered the room with the clothes that had been requested. Lydia immediately dismissed the young maid, who stared at her with red-rimmed eyes and made the sign of the cross as she backed out of the room. Lydia almost laughed. Apparently, Dorcas considered her lady's preternatural calm to be a sign of some sort of evil possession. _Maybe I am possessed. Maybe I'm mad. I don't mind, though. Better this than fear_.

She rode her horse across the fields to Dame Ciara's hovel, concentrating on the feel of the sun's warmth on her skin and avoiding roads or anywhere that she might encounter another person. Dame Ciara met her at the door and invited her in as though she were an expected guest. Lydia stepped inside to the center of the small, one room dwelling and then turned to face the handywoman.

"You are a monster, aren't you?" Lydia began without preamble. "I don't know what you are, precisely, I only know that you are evil. You take life away, even as you usher it into the world, and use it to extend your own existence."

Dame Ciara uttered not a word of protest. She did not look shocked or insulted; she merely stared at Lydia with a tiny smile curling the corners of her mouth. For an instant, Lydia felt her spirit falter, but she continued.

"I suppose it doesn't matter exactly what you are, really. I have come to ask you to relieve me of a great guilt. I trust that in doing so you will also relieve me of my own life. Use it as you will, as I no longer care to possess it." Lydia stood silent then, forcing herself not to look away as the handywoman studied her with an air of both disdain and avarice.

"I can take this guilt from you, m'lady," she finally spoke. "And your life, which you now detest, I might take that also. But what do you offer me?"

"I…I assumed that whatever grotesque nourishment you derive from my death would be sufficient payment…" Lydia replied.

Only then did the woman draw herself up as though offended.

"I decide," she hissed. "I decide what I need, and I decide who lives and who dies. I do not need your charity."

"No, no of course not," Lydia spoke hurriedly, finding herself in the bizarre position of placating the insulted sensibilities of a monster. "I have gold also. All that I own." She withdrew a few small coins from the inside of her cloak and held them out. Dame Ciara sneered at the amount, but she snatched the coins away nonetheless.

"Sit there…there on the bed," she commanded Lydia in sour tones, waving her to the tiny cot against the wall. "I must prepare the draught."

Lydia sat on the bed, her hands clenched in her lap, as the handywoman withdrew to the farthest, darkest corner of the hovel. Lydia could see nothing that was going on there, but in fact she did not try very hard. The thought of Dame Ciara preparing whatever enchantment she intended to wield made the young girl feel faint and queasy. Lydia chose instead to concentrate on remembering as much detail as she could about a particular corner of the garden at her school where she had enjoyed sitting in the late afternoon sun.

"Drink this," the woman said, thrusting a heavy earthen mug in Lydia's face. The girl recoiled as the liquid inside the mug rippled sluggishly. It was very dark, and very thick. She sniffed cautiously. The mixture smelled strongly of potent herbs with an acrid undertone of ammonia. Lydia swallowed convulsively.

"It's not fine wine, m'lady," Dame Ciara snapped. "Drink it now. I haven't all day to be messing about with the likes of you."

Lydia drank, forcing down every drop of the vile concoction. The pain was almost instantaneous. It went on for hours, though she quickly lost track of time, and Lydia felt cheated of what she had assumed would be a quick death. In fact, it turned out not to be the final peace of death at all. For when it was all over, Dame Ciara bundled her, half-conscious and burning with fever, onto her horse and pointed her in the direction of the manor house.

There, at Madame Deirdre's orders, she was toted into the kitchen with all the care that might have been shown for a sack of potatoes and then stripped and doused with water until Lydia was shaking convulsively and pleading for mercy.

"Take her to her bedroom, Dorcas," Madame Deidre said. "Sir Robert will be back tomorrow morning. He can deal with her then, if she's still alive." With a last, disgusted look at the pale shuddering creature huddled on the floor, the senior housemaid turned and walked briskly out of the room as though the situation were unworthy of another moment of her time.

Sir Robert's promised return occurred just after dawn on the next day, and he arrived to find his household in an uproar. Servants seemed to be dashing every which way. Robert was forced to snag a young gardener by his collar as the boy hurried by and send him to the barn with the horse. The stable boy who should have been awaiting his master's arrival was nowhere to be found. Robert, fuming, stepped inside the house to find Madame Deidre barking orders to more scurrying servants.

"What is the meaning of all this?" Robert demanded.

"One of the young housemaids is missing, Sir Robert. Dorcas has not been seen since last night," Madame Deidre replied. "I have the staff searching for her and taking inventory of the entire estate. If she has left, she will have certainly not left empty-handed."

"Where is Lydia?" Robert asked immediately. Madame Deidre gave him a sharp look. Strange that hearing of someone possibly fleeing the household should have sent his thoughts instantly to Lydia.

"Still abed, I presume. We've heard nothing from her this morning. Dorcas would have regularly attended to her, of course," the woman answered. "Your sister was very ill last night. You might wish to check on her. Please ring immediately if she has need of anything," she ended with an enigmatic expression on her face.

"I found her bedroom locked, and she wouldn't answer my knocking," Neal explained to Dean, "I feared that she might have left with the maid, and of course I had a master key, so I opened the door."

The scene he found there was so jarring that for a long moment Robert could only stare, agape. Lydia was sitting on the stone floor next to her fireplace, the fire cold in the grate, having obviously gone out hours ago. She was wrapped in a blanket, but it was thin and barely sufficient to cover her. The bare skin that was visible in the dim light looked icy, but she was not shivering. Robert could not see her face. Her head was bent, staring down at her hands as though they were alien things that she could not comprehend.

Her hands, the blanket, and much of the surrounding floor were covered in blood. And when Lydia finally lifted her head and stared at Robert with a look of suppressed terror, he saw that her mouth and chin and throat were covered in blood as well. Dorcas lay on the hearthrug in front of her, her throat torn open as though by some wild animal attack, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, glazed in death.

Robert stepped inside the room and locked the door behind him.

"Please help me," Lydia whispered urgently. She told him everything that had happened then, her voice breaking. Her concerns for Nora and Nora's death, her own shame and fear, and her trip to see Dame Ciara. She told him about the vile potion and her hours of agony. "I don't know what I've become."

But Robert knew. He had heard the stories his whole life. Not stories from his mother of noble rulers or titles or God-ordained conquest, but stories that the old men told when the fires were banked low. Stories of those who lived forever on human blood, mighty and eternal, truly God in their own right, tales of the vampire told to terrorize young children. But Robert had never been terrorized by the stories – he had been captivated. To live forever, to take life from the unworthy and use it to grow stronger, that was true power. He crossed to Lydia's side, ignoring the body of the little maid entirely, and knelt beside her.

"Don't be frightened," he said. "I forgive you for destroying my child. There is no need for an heir now. We can live forever." Then he grasped the back of Lydia's head and pulled the baffled young girl to him in a kiss, biting her lip cruelly and sucking at the tainted blood which welled up there. Shocked, Lydia jerked away from him, her lips curling back as fangs descended. But it was too late, Robert had what he wanted, and his transformation was already under way.

Neal's voice grew faint in his retelling. He was still speaking to Dean, but his thoughts were obviously miles and decades away from the cellar where he now stood.

"We could have had anything, everything – we could have been eternal. All we had to do was leave the house and go off together into the world," the man said. "But Lydia began screaming hysterically for help, bringing every servant in the household running. They beat the door down and came swarming in with whatever makeshift weapon they had grabbed on their way to the room.

Lydia was shrieking, telling them everything she had done and what we two had become, begging them to kill her – begging them to kill me! The last thing I saw were those vile peasants beating Lydia to the ground, hacking at her throat with butcher knives and garden hoes. And she just let them. She just let them destroy her.

I had to jump from the third floor window to escape. My transformation wasn't complete, and I was still weak and human. I had to drag my broken body to the woods to hide – I nearly died there in the dirt. But I survived. And I've made it my mission since then to punish those like Lydia. She was family, and she abandoned me – she betrayed me." He looked at Dean then, clearly under the impression that he had explained his personal motivation sufficiently.

Dean was staring at Neal with a mingled look of astonishment and revulsion.

"You sick son of a bitch…" Dean began, but he got no further before Neal punched him in the jaw.


	15. Not Fine at All

Chapter 15 Not Fine at All

Dean was only out for a few minutes, but when he came to, Neal was gone. _Did he go to get Sam? At least he's alive. God only knows what he's going through, though – _

Dean remembered what his own transformation had been like – the disorientation, the near panic, the hunger. But Neal's words about Sam had confirmed Dean's suspicions that the transformation had been so much worse for his brother. There was even the possibility that Sam, his brother Sam, had not survived.

Dean squinted up at the bolt in the wall that held him imprisoned. The first thing he had to do was get free. He turned towards the wall and began trying to twist the heavy bolt, pulling from one side to the other. When it refused to budge, he tried using the handcuffs to loosen the packed dirt, scraping around the edge of the bolt's threaded shaft. Chunks of dry dirt fell away, and Dean thought he might have hit on something. Then he heard shuffling footsteps in the hall just moments before someone crashed into the door and began fumbling with the doorknob. Dean scraped and chiseled faster, yanking at the bolt to see if he had loosened it at all, but within seconds the door was thrown open. Dean spun to see who was entering the room.

It was Sam, standing there in the doorway with his eyes narrowed against the dim light bulb that hung from the ceiling. For just a second, Dean felt only relief. But then he took in his brother's appearance. Sam's skin was a sickly gray pallor, his sunken eyes burning with fever. His entire being spoke of someone who had been gravely ill for months. Worse yet, he showed no sign of recognizing his brother as his gaze fixated on Dean's throat. Sam's lips pulled back as fangs descended in front of his teeth, and he lurched towards Dean.

"Sam? Sammy?"

Sam stopped abruptly. He continued to stare at the pulse throbbing in Dean's neck, but a fierce internal battle played out over his face and seemed to root him to the spot.

"Hey, it's okay, you're okay..." Dean could see that his brother was still there, still fighting. "Just help me get out of here, and we can fix this. I promise."

Again, the battle raging inside Sam was apparent on his face. One side seemed to win out, and he stumbled forward. But then he wrenched his gaze upwards to make eye contact with Dean, and again stood immobilized. Suddenly, he reeled backwards until he was pressed against the opposite wall. His breath coming in shallow gasps, Sam looked as though he were trying to force the fangs in his mouth to retract, with no success. He turned his face away from his brother, his eyes tightly shut, as a moan of pain sounded from deep in his chest.

"Sam, come on, just help me get out of here. We can fix this. You know we can."

"Dean…I can't…" It was all Sam managed to say before he turned and stumbled from the room.

"Sam! Sam!" In the same instant, Dean heard the noise of a car engine turning over from outside and then the sound of wheels spinning in gravel. Neal must be leaving. He had to have realized that his plan was not working out exactly the way he had anticipated. "Dammit! Sam! Sammy!"

Dean jerked at the bolt in the wall with renewed strength. He had to get Neal. Sam looked as though his life depended on getting the cure as soon as possible.

"Dammit…son of a…" _Where the hell did Sam go?_

The sound of the car engine faded away, and Dean's frustration skyrocketed. He pulled at the bolt again and again, and finally it loosened. A few more violent tugs had it free of the wall, and Dean was able to drop his aching arms. He held the bolt and the handcuff chain in one hand while he fished inside his jacket pocket with the other. Thankfully, Neal had been too sure of his own plan to bother searching him thoroughly. He had taken Dean's extra knife, and the gun tucked in his waistband, and the two syringes of dead man's blood that were strapped just above his ankle, but Dean found his lockpick tucked in a small pocket where it always stayed. Within seconds, the handcuffs dropped from his wrists.

Hurrying through the open door, Dean spotted the steps leading out of the cellar and the room at the other end of the hall. _Please be in that room, Sammy. Please don't make me hunt you down, wherever the hell we are – _

Dean raced across the hall and threw open the door. He had just a split-second to take in the scene – Sam crouched on the floor next to a bed, head hanging down, one wrist enclosed in a manacle that hung from the bottom of the bedframe – before Sam's head snapped up, a feral snarl rumbling from his throat, his face every bit the monster. He lunged at Dean, dragging the bedframe along behind him as though it were nothing, leaving scattered boxes and chairs in his wake.

Reflexively, Dean backed up against the doorframe.

"Sam!"

But this time his brother was gone. The snarling creature slammed into Dean, fangs inches away from his face as Dean stumbled back into the hallway. Sam grabbed at him, catching Dean's jacket with his free hand, but Dean shoved him off and fell flat on his back. He scrambled backwards as Sam dove towards him.

The sound of the iron bed crashing into the doorframe reverberated throughout the cellar. Jolted to a stop, Sam spun around with a look of wild terror to see what was holding him. The bed would not fit through the door. And even with his vampire strength, Sam was no match for an iron manacle attached to an iron bedframe. Dean, picking himself up from the floor, flinched as Sam roared with rage and pain. It was devastating to see his brother like this, so completely possessed by the monster inside him, but Dean clung to one spark of hope. There had been enough Sam remaining to know to lock himself down. Dean just had to get the cure – and trust that Sam would still be there waiting to be rescued.

"I'll be back, Sammy," he said, turning towards the steps, "hold on, okay?" But Sam did not reply. He just stood there in the doorway, staring at his brother with feverish eyes and malevolent craving.

Dean quickly climbed the steps leading out of the cellar. He reached the wooden hatch at the top and found it tightly shut. With only a few shoves, though, it swung up and back, slamming into the floor. He pulled himself through the opening and found that he was inside another one-room cabin, only this one was completely empty.

Outside, dusk had fallen, and the woods surrounding the cabin were every bit as thick as the ones Dean had found at the south property. It was as dark as midnight, and his flashlight had been lost when Lyssa attacked him. Dean pulled out his phone instead and shone the tiny light around himself. No one – only tracks in the narrow drive where someone had spun in the gravel as they sped away. And then –

"Oh, Baby…" Dean's joy was almost palpable as his light fell on the outlines of the Impala, sitting just on the edge of the drive. Lyssa must have driven it over with his unconscious body inside. "It is so good to see you, sweetheart."

He found the keys still in the ignition and snatched them out to pop the trunk. In all honesty, Dean had rushed out of the cabin with no idea of what his next step would be. Finding Baby sitting there felt like the first thing that had gone right in hours, and it also made the path forward fairly obvious. Rummaging in her trunk, he quickly found the items he was looking for – more syringes of dead man's blood.

The next step was to get Sam somewhere safe, somewhere he could be held until Neal was tracked down. Although trapped for now, there was no telling what Sam could do given time, and they couldn't risk him getting free. What he might do in his current state was unthinkable. On the other hand, Sam was obviously too unstable to just ride in the back of the Impala. _Oh, hell yeah, I'll just buckle him in, that'll be awesome –_

No matter how much Dean hated even the thought of it, Sam would have to be drugged.

Dean climbed back into the cellar. He paused at the end of the flight of steps, holding one of the syringes in his hand and listening intently, trying to determine where Sam was at the moment. All he could hear was Sam's ragged breathing. _He must still be right at the door. How am I supposed to dose him without getting too close? Man, a dart gun would be really great right about now – _

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded weak and hollow, but it was definitely Sam. "I've got it under control for now. Did you get him? Did you get Neal?" The vamp had apparently explained who he was to Sam. _Probably made him listen to that whole crazy ass story, too. Bastard –_

Dean stepped down into the hall. Sam was sitting in the doorway where he had been stopped, his right arm still attached to the bed, looking up at Dean with a hope in his eyes that was heartbreaking.

"He was already gone." Dean said.

Sam seemed to crumple, his head dropping, his left arm curling up over it as though protecting himself from a blow.

"I'm going to get him," Dean hurried on, "hey, don't worry, I'm going to get him. But I can't just leave you, man…and I can't take you this way…and I hate having to do this, but…"

Sam lifted his head and saw the syringe in Dean's hand. His eyes suddenly hardened, and Dean took an involuntary step backwards. For a moment, neither of them moved as Sam struggled to hold back the monster inside. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he gained control of himself once more.

"I get it," Sam said, turning his face away, his entire body tense in expectation of the burning pain. "You don't have a choice. Do it quick and go find that son of a bitch."

But Dean was already moving as soon as Sam looked away, and he plunged the needle into his brother's neck before Sam had barely finished speaking, injecting the dead man's blood into his veins. Sam cried out and then went rigid, the fire burning through his body. Then he slumped against the doorframe, pulled down once again into the nightmare depths.


	16. To Find a Killer

Chapter 16 To Find a Killer

Garth was waiting on his front porch when the Impala turned into the gravel driveway. Dean had called him as soon as he reached a spot where cell service was once again available.

"Garth?"

"Hey, what's up, compadre? Y'all need something?"

"Do you have a safe room at the farm?"

"A what now?" Garth's confusion quickly turned to alarm. "What's wrong? Do I need to get everyone somewhere safe?"

"No, it's not for you...I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean to worry you. I need it." Dean had to force the next words out. "I need it for Sam. How good is it?"

The line was silent for just a beat.

"Strong enough to hold an out of control werewolf." Another pause. "How strong does it need to be?"

"Strong enough to hold a very large out of control vamp."

"Aww, no…" Garth had not spoken to either Winchester since the morning of the hunter raid on his farm. That had been nearly three days ago, and the vampire hunt had obviously gone badly wrong since that time. "Why didn't you call me before…?" Garth stopped himself. He already knew the answer to why Dean hadn't gotten him involved for help sooner. And the fact that Dean was calling now proved just how desperate the situation was. "Bring him here, man. It's strong enough."

"I just need him to be somewhere safe until I can track down the vamp who turned him. It won't be long, I swear."

"It'll go even quicker with me helping," Garth responded and then continued over Dean's protests. "Don't be an idjit, Dean, of course I'm going to help. I'll be ready when you get here."

And true to his word, Garth came down the steps as soon as he spotted Baby, a bag slung over his shoulder, and waved Dean to follow the driveway on past the house to the barn. He jogged up next to the Impala just as Dean pulled to a stop.

"Just let me get the doors – pull on in."

Garth swung both barn doors open, and Dean pulled in next to a pickup truck that looked like it had been wrecked sometime recently. He raised his eyebrows in question to Garth, nodding at the truck, as he climbed out of the Impala.

"Yeah that," Garth said. "Found it in a ditch about two miles down the road. Justin wasn't any better at driving than he was at managing his temper." Garth's words were harsh, but the underlying pain was evident in his voice. Dean just nodded. He understood that pain – the sense of failing, no matter how hard you tried.

"So where is it?" Dean asked. It was time to get Sam to the safe room.

Garth motioned Dean to follow him to the far corner of the barn to what looked like a small tack room. Behind the tools and bins and other farming implements hanging on the walls Dean could see painted sigils and wardings. Unlocking the room, Garth used both hands to swing the heavy iron door open, and Dean peered inside. The room, roughly eight feet by ten feet, was fully lined with iron, and the same wardings continued as on the outside. There was a lone fluorescent bulb, a mattress on the floor, a bucket in the corner, and a gallon jug of water. Other than that, the room was empty. If Bobby's safe room had been the Hilton, this one was the Motel 6. But it looked sturdy. Dean didn't ask about the deep scratches and gouge marks marring the walls. Whatever had gone berserk inside that room had not managed to break through. That was all that mattered.

"Looks like that'll hold," was Dean's only comment. He returned to the Impala, opening the back door and crouching down next to it, reaching in to pull his brother's motionless body towards him.

"Let me help," Garth said, going to the other side of the car. When he opened the back door and leaned in to help push Sam's body out, Dean saw his eyes widen. Sam's skin was pale and withered, his eyes and cheeks dark hollows in his face. He could have easily passed for a corpse. Dean opened his mouth to assure Garth that everything was fine, but the words that came out were as though someone else were speaking them.

"It's bad, I know. He already looks worse than he did when I put him in the car. I don't know why it's affecting him so bad," Dean said, his voice furious and anxious at the same time. "I've seen my share of new vamps, and they've never looked this bad. And I had to shoot him up with dead man's blood just to get him here. It's like he'd be Sam one minute and then completely gone the next."

"Well, that's no big thing," Garth said, matter-of-factly. He grunted, struggling as he lifted Sam's legs onto the seat. "You've got the stuff for the cure – all we need is the vamp blood. We'll get that real quick." That easy optimism was one of the things that Dean had initially found difficult to understand about Garth. It had struck him as woefully naïve at best, flippant at worst. But the Winchesters had both gotten to know Garth better since that time. Now Dean understood the attitude as a mix of sincere hopefulness and a dash of bravado, and he felt oddly grateful for it in the present circumstances.

Dean succeeded in pulling the bulk of Sam's unconscious body out of the backseat, and Garth rushed around to help carry him. The two of them managed to get Sam into the safe room and lower him as gently as possible onto the mattress. Then, Dean leaned against the wall and blew out an exhausted breath, and Garth took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Whew…your brother still weighs awful healthy, man. How'd you ever get him in the car by yourself?"

"Wasn't easy," Dean responded. "But getting him out of the cellar to begin with was the real bitch."

"Now that's balls," Garth said with a chuckle.

They had just stepped out of the room, Garth locking the iron door firmly, when they looked up to see Mateo, having silently entered the barn, staring at them with large eyes.

"Will Mr. Sam be okay?" he asked, looking with grave concern from Dean to Garth.

Dean, seeing the young boy who had already experienced so much trauma in his short life, was suddenly at a loss for words. He hated that the child was worried about something being wrong with Sam, but Dean's words were stifled as he realized that all his assurances would be based on getting what they needed to cure Sam. Mateo was living, would continue to live, with something that had no hope of being cured.

"Don't you worry, buddy." Garth, as usual, plowed ahead with cheery optimism. "We're going to get Mr. Sam all better. Takes a lot more than a stupid vampire to bring down a Winchester."

The boy looked somewhat mollified, and Dean again found himself experiencing a fresh appreciation for Garth's personality.

Bess, with Emmie trailing behind, entered the barn at that moment.

"Mateo, somebody wants to hear her favorite bedtime story from you," Bess said, in that most obvious of adult ways. "Can you take Emmie to the house? I'll be there in just a minute."

Mateo hesitated, looking earnestly at Garth.

"Go on, it's okay," Garth assured him as Emmie ran over to tug impatiently on Mateo's hand, "I'm going with him. We'll make sure this gets taken care of and Mr. Sam will be okay."

"And I'll make sure everything is taken care of here," Mateo said. "I'll make sure everything is okay until you get home." His voice, and the way he drew himself up to his full height of almost five feet, indicated his meaning. He wanted Garth to know that he intended to be a protector while Garth was away.

Dean ducked his head, trying to hide the smile that pulled up the corner of his mouth. Garth, however, nodded very seriously at the young boy.

"I know you will, buddy." They watched the children leave the barn, and then Garth turned to Dean, a fond smile now on Garth's face. "He's a great little guy."

"He is," Dean's expression had sobered, "and that's why I can't let you go with me, Garth." He held his hand up as Garth started to speak. "No. Look man, I know what you're going to say. I know you want to help – you have helped. But those two need you, man. They need you here with them. Tell him, Bess."

Garth's wife had come to stand beside him, linking arms and leaning into his side. She looked worried, but her voice was strong when she spoke.

"I did tell him," she said. "I told him exactly what you're saying, and then he told me what he was thinking." Bess moved to step away from Garth's side, but he reached out and caught her hand. "Both of those kids consider him their father…"

"…and Bess is an amazing mother." Garth smiled at his wife. "They're looking to us to know how to live, Dean. We can't let them down. I have to go help you…"

"…and I have to let him," Bess finished. "You two watch each other's backs and call me when you can." Then with a quick kiss, she hurried from the barn.

"Garth, I don't…" Dean started to say, but then he bit back his words. It would be a lie to say he didn't need any help. He remembered the words Sam had spoken to him several days ago - _some people are just like that…they won't live safe no matter how much you want them to_. That was what the Winchesters had – family and friends who would do anything for them, other than just stay safe. Dean could keep arguing, or he could just accept the friend he had and be grateful. "Okay..so..how the hell are we going to do this?"

Their chances for success went from bad to worse as soon as Dean began checking for webcams in the area to hack into. After fifteen minutes of futile online searching, he slammed the laptop closed and forced himself not to throw it across the barn. Instead, he opened the trunk of the Impala and threw the laptop in amongst the weaponry, slamming the trunk in disgust.

"Nothing," he said. "What the hell, man, has Big Brother never heard of Wisconsin or Minnesota?"

"Alright, so we're not going to get anything there. Let's talk about what we do know," Garth said, having wisely sat without comment while Dean was stewing with frustration over the lack of camera footage. "He probably ditched his car anyway before they got very far along, but do we have any idea of which direction they might be headed?"

Dean explained the conclusion he had come to during the drive from the cabin to Garth's place – he was certain Neal would be making his way out of the country.

"This whole keeping-a-vic-alive thing is new for him," he told Garth. "Plus, he was playing at being a teacher, so when he doesn't show up to school, and Lyssa is still missing, and everyone starts putting things together…"

"…oh, it's Amber Alerts all over, baby," Garth agreed. He pulled out an old map from a cluttered drawer in a workbench and spread it out on Baby's trunk for them to look at. Garth ran his finger along the most obvious escape route – north on I-35.

"Well, yeah, I agree with the I-35 part," Dean said, "but I think he's going to go south. I think we need to head south and travel separately, so we can cover more…"

"Hold up, man," Garth protested, "they could be in Canada in barely four hours. Why would they head south?" He gave Dean a look which clearly questioned his sanity.

"It's what he's going to do," Dean said. "He's going to head for Mexico – a lot fewer authorities asking questions, and a lot more dead bodies to hide their hunting." Dean sounded his usual confident self – 'often wrong, but seldom in doubt' Sam had been known to say – but his stomach knotted at the thought of how crucial this one decision might be. _Dammit, going south again…I better be right this time –_

"Alright then, south it is," Garth said, still sounding skeptical. He studied the map for a bit, tracing his finger down the line that marked I-35. "But that's going to take us right through Minneapolis. We could blow right past them easy going through there."

"Oh, we're not trying to catch them on the road." Dean pointed to a spot on the map that was labeled Faribault, Minnesota. It looked like the first town of any size once a person got out of the Minneapolis-St. Paul-Burlington cluster. "We're going to start there and see if we can't track them down where they've stopped."

"Why would they stop?" Garth asked incredulously.

"Neal thinks he's got a couple of days before he'll be missed, and he's not worried about me. I'm sure he assumes that Sam eventually killed me." Dean continued with a look of disgust on his face. "See, he thinks he's found the new love of his undead life. I think he's going to want a little alone time."


	17. Just a Hunch

Chapter 17 Just a Hunch

Dean slammed the Impala's door behind him as he sank into the driver's seat. He roughed his hands through his hair in agitation and asked himself for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing. His hunter's instincts had set them on this path, and, all modesty aside, Dean knew for a fact that they were good instincts. He hadn't survived and succeeded as long as he had without them. Of course, that was the thing – he hadn't survived and succeeded on his own. Sam had been beside him almost every step of the way, and it was their instincts and abilities working together that had always been the real key. Without his brother, Dean was beginning to fear that his plan really was as crazy as the look on Garth's face had indicated.

He and Garth had started at the Faribault, Minnesota, exit nearly two hours ago, each taking one side of the interstate and checking every small motel within a one-mile range, flashing pictures of Neal that they had pulled from the school system's website and asking the front desk if they had seen anyone like that traveling with a high school aged girl. They were on their third exit now, and probably some 4-5 hours behind the two vamps, and Dean was beginning to lose faith in himself. _Maybe we should just stop, regroup, start trying to track Neal's credit cards or something. Is Sam getting worse? How much time do we have?_

Dean's phone rang, and he looked down to see that Garth was calling him – probably tapped out and ready to head to the next exit.

"Garth, this isn't working, maybe I was…"

"Get over here. I'm just about two miles east of the exit, at the Gas 'n Sip. There's a little motor court place called Winjum's Shady Acres, and this clerk is definitely shady, man."

Dean started the Impala and was speeding in Garth's direction before he even replied.

"How'd you decide to go that far?"

"I don't know…" Garth hesitated, "…not to sound too mystical or anything, but I just felt something, you know?"

"Yeah, I do know." Dean replied. "Sometimes a good hunter just gets a hunch."

Less than two minutes later, Dean screeched into the Gas 'n Sip parking lot and pulled to a stop next to Garth's truck. Garth leaned out the window and motioned back over his shoulder.

"The place is back there. I showed the clerk the picture, and he definitely did a double take. Then he wouldn't really meet my eye after that. I came back out here to call you so we could go in together."

Winjum's Shady Acres consisted of a dozen separate small lodges arranged in a loose semicircle around a front office. It lay behind the Gas 'n Sip, a couple of hundred yards down a narrow road. It was the middle of the night as Dean and Garth approached in Garth's truck, but it seemed likely that the "Shady" part of the name was true in more ways than one. Towering pine trees were scattered around the buildings and arranged in a tight tree line along the east side of the property. And even in the dark they could see that the place was overgrown, the parking lot littered with potholes and detritus, the buildings all in bad need of paint. The charm of the motor lodge was obvious, though – cars parked there could not be spotted from the interstate, or even from the county road which ran in front of the gas station. In fact, a suspicious spouse, or law enforcement official, would have to make a point to drive down the road to Winjum's before they could see who was there.

The bell attached to the front office door jangled softly as Dean and Garth entered, but the clerk didn't need the notification. He had already spotted the truck coming back into the parking lot and was standing behind the counter, glaring.

"Bringin' him with you isn't gonna help anything. I already told you…" the man started in immediately, speaking to Garth, but Dean held up his hands to forestall the tirade.

"Hey, hey man…just wanting to make sure you got a good look at this," Dean said as he approached, holding Neal's picture out towards the clerk. "It's really important. We're talking about a missing high school kid. We'd hate for you to make a bad mistake. Take another look, okay?"

The clerk didn't even bother to glance at the picture. A nervous flush was rising on his neck, but he squared his shoulders belligerently and came out from behind the counter, one arm raised, pointing to the door that he clearly intended on herding the two interlopers back through.

"I haven't seen them. I'm not sayin' it again. Now get the hell out of…"

Dean grabbed the outstretched arm and twisted it behind the man's back, eliciting a yelp of surprise and pain. His other hand gripped the man's shoulder and shoved him facedown into the accumulated fast food wrappers and other debris on top of the counter.

"I said," Dean continued in a conversational tone, wrenching the clerk's arm up a little further when he began squirming, "we'd hate for you to make a bad mistake. Now take another look."

Dean lifted his hand from the man's shoulder and slammed the now crumpled picture down on the counter.

"Alright, alright…let me go, man…I've seen them…okay?" All of the clerk's bluster had disappeared. The man's voice was now very near panic, probably because he truthfully feared that Dean was about to break his arm. Dean did not release his grip, though. Instead he leaned in even closer, his head cocked to indicate that he was waiting to hear more. The clerk actually whimpered. "Look guys, I get paid to keep my mouth shut, okay? I wasn't tryin' to make trouble. They came in this evenin', got a room, and then left after 'bout an hour. But not like "left" left, ya know? They didn't check out or nothin'. I think they're comin' back."

"What room?" Dean asked quietly, very near the man's ear as he stepped in even closer and dug his knee into the back of the clerk's thigh. Information began pouring out in a torrent.

"It's Lodge 200, second one from the left, they were in a brown Honda Accord, I'm not sure what make, but the back bumper had a big dent and the…"

"Alright, hey…settle down…now see, that was helpful." Dean let go of the man's arm and stepped back to stand next to Garth. As soon as he was released, the clerk scuttled behind the counter and snatched up the office phone. But he froze when he heard the pistol being cocked, looking up in wild-eyed terror. Garth, holding the gun pointed at the man, smiled pleasantly.

"You don't want to do that," Garth said.

"Yeah, let us tell you what you do want to do," Dean interjected. "You want to sit right here, and not touch the phone, and not touch your cell phone, and not move from this spot. Because me and my partner are going to be watching you from right outside." He reached forward to pick up the picture of Neal that he had left lying on the counter, and the clerk flinched. "You're going to not move until they get back. Once he's seen you sitting here just like he'd expect, and gone into the room, you can run as fast and as far as you want. In fact, I'd highly recommend that you do."

The man just stared at them, his mouth hanging open, nodding mutely.

"Now," Dean said, "sit down, close your mouth, and forget you ever saw us."

They had only been sitting in Garth's truck for less than a half-hour, pulled into the deep shadows of the tree line, watching the clerk sit in the front office as stiff as a mannequin, when the Honda Accord came rolling into the parking lot.

"It's him," Dean whispered, the relief palpable in his voice. _Hang on, Sammy. We're getting so close. Just a little longer and I can get you better _–

The car stopped in front of Lodge 200, and Neal and Lyssa disappeared into the room. The clerk, his eyes trained on the spot where he knew the hunters were waiting, looked like he might have a stroke when Dean and Garth emerged from the shadows, both wielding huge machetes. That was the last straw. The man burst through the office door and took off down the narrow, rutted road in a dead sprint.

"Most exercise he's had in a while," Garth whispered. "He should probably thank us." But all of Dean's concentration was focused on the room. He motioned Garth to head to the left of the door and flattened himself on the right side, avoiding the window. For a moment they waited, listening to see if Garth could tell where in the room the vampires might be. After a moment, Garth looked at Dean, raising his eyebrows to give a 'what's up with that?' sort of look.

"They're over by the far bed, and it sounds like they're arguing…" he mouthed, barely a whisper. "She's not happy about something." Dean returned the look that Garth had given and then shrugged. Whatever the disagreement was, Neal and Lyssa were about to have much bigger problems to worry about. Dean pointed to Garth, then to the doorknob, then he pointed to himself and hooked his thumb towards the room. Garth was to try opening the door, and Dean would lead the way into the room. Garth nodded. He placed his hand so that it was almost gripping the handle, and Dean began a silent three-count.

He had just mouthed 'two' when the door was flung open from inside.


	18. Slow Burn

Chapter 18 Slow Burn

Sam remembered it, how it had felt all those years ago when he needed the demon blood. He remembered the power and strength it gave him, the feeling of invincibility, of righteousness. And he remembered how it felt when he craved more and couldn't satisfy his craving – the strung-out agitation, jittery and anxious and weak, the way his eyesight blurred and the pins-and-needles sensations in his hands, cursing Ruby for making him suffer, cursing himself for allowing it to get to that point. He remembered being so certain that, if he could just get a little more blood, he could be strong enough to never need it again. And he remembered being in deep withdrawal, half out of his mind with longing, delusional and desperate. He could never forget that time in his life, no matter how badly he wished he could.

Those memories floated through his mind now, and with them came a realization. This time was not like that time. This – what the vampire blood was doing to him – was not the same. This time he was dying. He had survived the transformation, but he would not survive for much longer.

A deep lethargy seemed to possess him. His attack on Dean, which Sam could recall only hazily, had spent what little strength and capacity he had remaining. Now, the thought of moving at all seemed incomprehensibly difficult. His breathing, already laborious, was growing slower. His senses were dull and sluggish. Sam could feel his body failing. Some part of his mind realized that he was contemplating his own death, but he felt no fear. In fact, he was calm, calmer than he had ever been in his numerous encounters with his own mortality. _Maybe I'll just fade away like this…barely any pain…Dean could find me just looking peaceful…that would better than I ever hoped for – _

As though in direct response to that thought, his senses rallied, assaulting him with sensations – the sharp, acrid smell of the iron walls, the roaring whoosh of blood flowing through veins somewhere just outside the room; and, worst of all, a burning dryness scorching his desiccated body. _Should have known it couldn't be that easy –_

Sam forced his eyes open and looked around. His head turned slowly, his gaze falling on the gallon jug of water, and a longing stirred within him. Rolling to one side, he was able to make it to his hands and knees. He crawled to the corner, kneeling and lifting the jug with shaking hands, and drank greedily, the water splashing down over him as his arms trembled under the weight. The lukewarm water felt icy against his burning skin.

Sam drank until the jug was half-empty and then set it down and slumped against the wall. His breathing was wild now, the effort that had been required to move and to drink causing him to gasp for air. He was almost too late to pull the bucket to him. Everything he had managed to drink, and more, came spewing out. Within seconds there was nothing left in his stomach, but the dry heaving continued for several minutes, his body determined to expel every hint of the repugnant water.

When it was finally over, the burning dryness had intensified. Only now, Sam knew that there was no way to relieve the pain. He closed his eyes and curled into the corner, the odor of the iron wall searing his nostrils. Relief was impossible, and so he waited. He didn't know which he was waiting for – unconsciousness or death – and he didn't care. He just prayed that one of them would come quickly so that he wouldn't have to feel every moment of his body burning away to ash.


	19. Lovers' Quarrel

Chapter 19 Lovers' Quarrel

Both hunters were stunned as Garth was yanked forward into the motel room by the sudden opening of the door. Dean recovered quickly and followed close behind him, but the vampires were ready for them. Neal grabbed Garth by the front of his jacket and swung him around, sending him crashing headfirst into the particle board wardrobe that stood just inside the door. Then Neal spun just in time to grab Dean's arm as the hunter brought his blade around in a sweeping arc. As the two of them struggled, Lyssa yanked Garth out of the wardrobe. She drew his body eagerly towards her mouth then stopped, wrinkling her nose and pulling back in revulsion.

"What is this thing?" she asked, disgusted.

"It's a werewolf," Neal replied, his words clipped and breathless as he tried to wrestle the deadly blade away from Dean. "For God's sake, just throw it away."

With a revolted look, Lyssa did just that, flinging Garth's limp body across the room.

"Garth!" Dean hollered, as his friend hit the far wall, crashing into the mirror that hung there and falling behind the bed in a spray of shattered glass. It was just the momentary lack of focus that Neal needed.

The vampire surged forward, shoving Dean back into the corner of the room, his arm fully extended as he caught Dean by the throat and pushed him up along the wall until Dean's shoes barely grazed the floor. Dean's free hand scrabbled against Neal's arm, desperate to free himself from the choking hold but unable to break the vampire's grip.

"Would you hurry with him? I'm hungry." Lyssa, having disposed of the inedible werewolf, hovered eagerly just behind Neal, her voice the petulant whine of a child eager for dinner to be ready. Neal snarled.

"This one is all mine," he ground out between clenched teeth as he pushed Dean's right arm back against the motel room door. Bright pops of light were beginning to appear around the edges of Dean's narrowing field of vision, but he tried his best to keep hold of the knife even as Neal pounded his clutched fist repeatedly against the door. Dean didn't even feel it when the knife slipped from his numb fingers. He just heard the soft thud of the handle landing on the carpet and saw the triumphant look on Neal's face. Then Neal was abruptly shoved aside.

Dean, finally released from the vampire's chokehold, gasped for air as he crumpled to the floor. But before he could recover, Lyssa was crouching over him, shoving his head to one side, her fangs sinking into his neck.

"Get away from him!" Neal, his face contorted with rage, grabbed his protégé, ripping her away from Dean and slinging her onto the bed. "I said no!"

Lyssa sprang up, her hands reaching to claw at Neal's face, but he pushed her back and struck her across the cheek.

"You bitch! You are mine! You are going to be my wife, and you will do as I say!" Neal was screaming at his young creation, striking her repeatedly as he emphasized his possession of her. Her defiance of his wishes seemed to have completely unhinged him.

Dean, one hand clamped over his neck to staunch the flow of blood, could not believe what was happening. The bad guys turning on each other for once – what a concept. Coughing and gasping for air, he looked wildly around for his knife. It was nowhere to be seen. _Damn it, did it bounce under the bed? Where the hell is it?_ Then he spotted the handle of Garth's knife just visible under the splintered wardrobe door. Dean crawled towards it. He almost had his fingers on the handle when a heavy foot crunched down on his hand causing him to holler in pain.

"Did you think I'd forgotten you?" Neal sneered, hauling Dean to his feet and slamming him once more against the wall. "I don't know how you managed to escape your brother, you cockroach, but you've messed up my plans long enough." Neal pulled back his lips, his fangs sharp and glistening, and then he froze. For a moment, Dean wasn't sure what had happened. He blinked in confusion as Neal's eyes went set and glassy. Then the hand holding him went slack and the vampire fell to the floor, his head rolling away to one side. Lyssa stood behind him, holding Dean's knife in her hand.

"I am not marrying some old thirty-something. That's just nasty," she announced with haughty disdain, her gaze sweeping dismissively over Neal's fallen body. Then she glanced up, and her eyes immediately locked on Dean's neck, staring hungrily at the blood leaking from between his fingers. "Where were we?"

"Let me get this straight," Dean panted, playing for time, sidling towards the door, "you don't mind sucking human blood. Hell, you don't even mind that you killed your own brother. You just don't like some old dude crushing on you?"

"Obviously," Lyssa laughed, her eyes following Dean's movements like a cat playing games with a little broken mouse.

"Obviously," Dean repeated, the eyeroll evident in his ragged voice. "I will never understand this generation." His hand was on the doorknob now, and he cringed as his shaking grip caused it to rattle loudly. Lyssa's smile grew wider; her fangs, already stained with Dean's blood, descended as she opened her mouth. The cat was tired of the game. She was preparing to pounce when she saw Dean's gaze flick past her, his expression hardened. Lyssa started to turn, but it was too late. In the next instant she fell to the floor just as Neal had, her head rolling to a stop against a corner of the bed, leaving Garth standing behind her.

"Good timing, man," Dean said to him, then he fainted.


	20. Worse than the Disease

Chapter 20 Worse than the Disease

"Stop pulling the towel off, Dean!" Garth snapped. Dean glared at him in response, but Garth didn't flinch. "We're not moving until you've had another solid ten minutes of compression on that neck." Garth was sitting in the driver's seat of the Impala – just one more reason for Dean's scowl – squinting at his phone. He was texting Bess, ostensibly making sure that all the ingredients for the potion were ready to mix as soon as they returned with the vial of vampire blood, but actually trying to get some idea of how bad the situation was that he and Dean might be returning to.

Garth:

How's he doing?

Bess:

He was vomiting earlier.

I haven't heard anything much in a long time.

Garth:

Do you know if he's alive?

Bess:

I still hear breathing.

It doesn't sound very good.

"Did you ask her about Sam? How is he?"

"He's okay. He was sick earlier, but he's..resting." Dean did not miss the tiny hesitation in Garth's voice.

"We're leaving now…"

"So help me, Dean, if you take that towel off again…"

"I'm fine!" Dean hollered as he climbed out of the passenger seat. "I can drive! Get in your own damn truck and let's go!" He dutifully continued to hold the towel pressed to his neck, but he was clearly not going to sit still a second longer. Garth clambered out of the Impala, knowing he was defeated. Truthfully, he was amazed he had kept Dean still for as long as he had seeing as how Dean had tried to bolt the instant he regained consciousness, even while Garth was in the middle of applying bandages to Dean's still bleeding neck. _Yeah, that would have been a treat, having you bleed out in the middle of I-35 –_ Garth thought, but he was wise enough to keep it to himself.

They made only one stop on their way back to Grantsburg, to get gas. While the pumps were going, Garth went in to get them both coffee. He looked obviously battered, but, unlike Dean, his appearance probably wasn't bad enough to prompt a call to the police. When he returned, he handed Dean a styrofoam cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and a pack of beef jerky. The coffee looked like the byproduct of a long overdue oil change, but Dean took it and downed every drop of the scalding liquid. He chugged the water as he placed the nozzle back in the gas pump.

"I texted Bess…" Dean said, not looking at Garth as he spoke, a faint note of censure in his voice, "…she said Sam's 'resting'."

Garth returned to his truck without comment. There would be no reasoning with Dean until he knew his brother was okay.

There was a faint light visible under the barn door when the Impala and the truck rolled into the yard. Inside, Bess was curled in an old rocking chair. She had taken up the solitary vigil as soon as Garth and Dean had left. Without meaning to, she had fallen into the habit of counting the halting, irregular breaths she could hear from inside the iron clad room. The count never reached higher than twenty or twenty-five before a pause would go on for too long. Each time, Bess started from her chair, seized with the fear that she had counted the last gasp. But each time, the breathing had restarted, and her silent count had resumed.

"You're here!" she said as Garth and Dean entered the barn, the relief evident on her face. Then she saw how bad both of them looked. "Oh…"

Garth went to her, assuring her that they were both okay. Dean spoke as he went to the workbench to begin mixing the potion ingredients.

"He's still alive, right?" His voice was raw, the fear and trauma of the past two days barely held in check.

"He is," Bess answered softly, "but he's struggling, Dean."

They opened the heavy door and found Sam collapsed in the corner where he had been since attempting to drink the water. Dean would have thought him dead except for the fact that he could actually feel the heat radiating off of Sam's fever-wracked body.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean dropped to his knees next to his brother, shaking him by the shoulder. "Sam?"

Sam turned towards the voice, straining to lift his head, his eyelids fluttering but unable to open. The weight in Dean's chest lifted a bit.

"It's okay…hey, don't worry, don't worry…I got you, man." Dean and Garth pulled Sam into a seated position, and Dean held the mixture up to his mouth. "You've got to drink this, Sam…you've got to drink this." Sam struggled weakly, too confused to recall anything other than the last time he had attempted to drink and the painful consequences. "Sam! Drink this!"

Dean's commanding voice seemed to get through to him. Sam stilled, then opened his mouth, allowing Dean to pour the vile concoction in. He swallowed convulsively, then slumped back against the wall once more. Nothing else happened.

"What's wrong?" Dean looked at Garth and Bess in bewilderment. "He's supposed to vomit all the poison out. That's what happens. That's what happened to me."

"Maybe it's just going to take a little…" Garth started to say, but before he could finish, Sam sat bolt upright, his eyes flying open. Grimacing in pain, his gaze flew frantically around the room. When he saw Dean, he clutched at him with both hands.

"Dean?" he panted.

"Yeah…I'm here, Sam. I'm right here," Dean said, feeling the last bit of heaviness leave his chest. "You're going to be…"

"I think I'm going to…" Sam broke in, and Dean shoved the bucket under his head just in time.

Sam did vomit then – a thick, black fluid that seemed to roil up from the depths of some noxious pit. His body aching and covered in a clammy sweat, he continued to vomit for the next several hours, slowly progressing from the concrete floor back to the mattress, then to the rocking chair. Finally, he was able to walk to the house, Garth and Dean supporting him on either side.

It was mid-morning when Abuelita climbed the stairs to the bedroom, carrying a tray of food for Dean, and broth for Sam if he should feel up to it. When no one replied to her knocking, Abuelita opened the door. Sam was asleep in the bed, looking pale and gaunt, but peaceful. Dean lay sleeping on the floor beside the bed, also looking pale – and somewhat mauled – but also peaceful. Abuelita smiled gently at them, and shut the door softly behind her.


	21. The Other Side

Chapter 21 The Other Side

"Dean…hey…time to get up." Dean stirred slightly at the sound of Sam's voice, but he did not rouse. "You have to get cleaned up before supper, man." The promise of food had more effect.

"Wha?...What time is it?" Dean started to sit up, then groaned loudly. Everything, every square inch of his body, screamed in protest. "Oh…son of a bitch, that hurts…" He blinked slowly and looked up to see Sam sitting on the edge of the bed. "Why am I on the floor? How long was I asleep?"

"Probably because that's where you collapsed…and several hours," Sam answered. He stood and reached down to help Dean up from the floor. Dean stood slowly, his eyes searching Sam's face and body for any lingering effects from the vampire change and remedy. His brother still looked tired and drawn, but his skin color was better and he seemed sound enough.

"You okay, man?"

"I'm up, I'm walking, I got a shower," Sam replied. "I'm probably doing better than you are right now."

"So, no…?"

"No more blood jonesing," Sam said, knowing what Dean needed to hear. "I had a glass of milk, and then threw up some more, and then had more milk. I'm okay."

"Good…good." Dean cleared his throat, patting Sam on the shoulder as he walked past him. "Well, I'm about to take every damn bandage off my body and take a real shower, so if you'll excuse me..."

The meal with Garth's family was a celebratory affair. Most of the household had spent the day resting and recuperating from the previous night, so Abuelita had happily puttered in the kitchen with Emmie by her side, preparing a mixture of family-style Mexican food and werewolf friendly raw meats. All of it was heartily appreciated. Sam was still only able to nibble at some rice and fruit, which caused Abuelita to fuss over him and Dean to rag him with the gusto of a relieved sibling, but Sam took it all with good graces.

Garth got a little teary-eyed when he realized that Mateo had spent the afternoon napping because the young boy had spent the night before sitting half-awake on the front porch. He had been determined to defend the family in case there should be any more unexpected visitors while Garth was away. Mateo, for his part, brushed off Garth's gratitude with an embarrassed shrug. But he was obviously happy to have everyone back home and safe – so happy that he nearly kept pace with Dean in eating.

Despite the family's protests, the Winchesters helped with dishes and then prepared to leave. It was time to get home. The hugs and thank-you's and take-care's took quite some time, even Emmie joining in to hug them both around the legs, but eventually they were on the road.

They had been driving for a few hours, the radio playing low, when Dean cut his eyes over to check on Sam and saw that he was awake.

"Hey, how're you feeling?"

"I'm good, I'm okay," Sam said, reflexively. Then, after a little hesitation, he continued. "Why do you think it was so bad?"

Dean knew what his brother meant. Why had the vampire transformation been so hard on him? Why had it made him lose himself? Why had it nearly killed him?  
"You've been through a lot of stuff in your life…" Dean began, his tone mild.

"Am I really that broken? That damaged?"

"Sam. It's not that…it's just…you know what? I don't know. I just know you're better now and that's all that matters."

They both fell back into silence and the minutes stretched out. Then Dean heard a faint sound and cut his eyes quickly in Sam's direction. Sam was sitting with his head turned to the window, his shoulders shaking.

"Sam, hey…" Sam turned to face him, and Dean saw that his brother was laughing. Stunned, Dean's face went through several emotions in comic succession – worry, shock, relief. "What the hell is so funny?"

"I just realized, man…" Sam was taking deep breathes through his laughter, "…I just realized I'm sitting here feeling bad about myself because I can't even turn into a damn vampire right…"

"The hell…" Dean said with a grin, and then he was laughing, too.


End file.
